
Glass. 



Book— 



THE 

PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST ; 



EXTENSIVE COLLECTION OF RECITATIONS, 

&electeti $c ^rrattgeti sxpresslg for &rfj0ol WLzz, 

WITH A FEW PLAIN RULES FOR INFLECTION, MODULATION, 
GESTURE AND ACTION, AND RHETORICAL PUNCTUATION. 

TttE PRINCIPAL POSITIONS ILLUSTRATED . 
FROM PHOTOGRAPHIC STUDIES, 

TAKEN EXPRESSLY FOR THIS "WORK. 



CONRAD HUME PINCHES, L.C.P. 

IEMBER OF THE COUNCIL OF THE ROYAL COLLEGE OF PRECEPTORS. 



Homiues amplius oculis quam auribus credunt, longnm iter est per 
prsecepta, breve et effieax per exempla." — Seneca. 




LONDON: 
PIPER, STEPHENSON AND SPENCE, 

(LATE SHERWOOD, GILBERT AND PIPER,) 

PATERNOSTER ROW. 

1854. 



7H>j-3.0l 



AS* 



LONDON: 

PRINTED BY WEKTHEIMER AND CO. 

1'INSBURY CIRCUS, 



DEDICATION 



My Dear Father, 

Justice — even more than filial regard — requires 
that this compilation should be dedicated to you, 
since it was from you that I received my earliest 
instruction in Elocution, and imbibed that fondness 
for the Art, which has induced the production of 
this work. 

Believe me, 

My Dear Father, 

Yours affectionately, 

Conrad Hume Pinches. 



Clarendon House, 

[enn1ngton road, lambeth. 

July, 1854. 



PREFACE. 



Notwithstanding the number, — and in many cases, 
the excellence, of the works which have issued from 
the press of late years on the subject of elocu- 
tion, it must have occurred, I think, to many, — who, 
like myself, have been engaged in the more practical 
part of the art, that these works, with few excep- 
tions, fail in their object from a two-fold cause; — 
either the authors have endeavoured to make their 
books Progressive Readers, as well as Elocutionary 
Treatises or Speakers, — or they have selected, to a 
very great extent, pieces, which, though highly poeti- 
cal and very beautiful, are not really suitable for 
school recitations, or are of an order within the scope 
of a boy's power to deliver with ease and effect. In 
many of these treatises, too, a fourth, and, in some 
cases, even a larger proportion, of the entire volume, 
is occupied with an elaborate and almost impractica- 
ble essay on inflections, — followed by numerous critical 
rules for accentuation or intonation. 

For want of a work of a more special character, 
I have been for some time in the habit of using one 
in which nearly one hundred pages are occupied 
with an essay of the kind described, and which por- 
tion of the book I have never been able to use with 
any real advantage. It appears to me, that the 
authors of the books above referred to, have entirely 
overlooked the fact, that, although their works have 
almost invariably been intended as School Speakers, 
they seem nevertheless to have been arranged on the 

a 3 



vi PREFACE. 






principle of u every man his own teacher;" — for it is 
self-evident that the teacher of elocution in schools, 
will effect his object much more readily by viva voce 
instruction, accompanied by a few simple diagrams, 
than by attempting to insist too much upon an ac- 
curate knowledge of the abstract principles of the art. 

Having been in the habit for many years of accus- 
toming my pupils to the practice of public recitations, 
I have been compelled, in my anxiety to furnish them 
with new and appropriate selections, to search very 
extensively in order to find, and then to devote con- 
siderable time to arrange, pieces suitable for the pur- 
pose. In this way I have accumulated a larger 
collection of recitations, and of a much more varied 
and practical character than has ever yet been pub- 
lished in a single volume. 

In the selections made, due caution has been exer- 
cised, in choosing such only as are calculated to 
elevate and strengthen the mind, or afford harmless 
amusement. In no instance have I presumed to 
interpolate lines, for the purpose of preserving the 
unity of the piece, even where extensive excision 
may have rendered the context rather abrupt, or the 
meaning of the author somewhat obscure, this being 
regarded as the less evil of the two ; omissions have 
only been made, in addition to the cases already 
enumerated, when the selection would occupy too 
much time in delivery; and then only such, — as do 
not materially,— if at all, — detract from the author's 
meaning, or the general effect of the extract. 

In scenes adapted from dramatic writers, — and in 
this portion of the work it is believed considerable 
novelty will be found, — great alteration has frequently 
been unavoidable, in consequence of the necessity 
which existed, not only of omitting the female 
characters, but occasionally of linking together isolated 
passages, or scenes so as to form a connected and effec- 
tive extract; — the work containing nothing but what 



PREFACE. Vll 

has been spoken publicly by boys, — or is deemed 
suitable for that purpose. 

Upon the principle that 

" All work and no play 
Makes Jack a dull boy," — 
I have considerably enlarged the space usually allotted 
to pieces of a humorous character; — in it, will be 
. found several by our modern writers, which it is be- 
lieved have never been introduced into works of this 
kind before, and which I have found, in practice, very 
beneficial, by varying the somewhat monotonous 
character of school recitations. 

The advantages, therefore, which I trust the work 
will be found to possess over others of a similar kind, 
are mainly these : — The number of the selections, — their 
practical character, — and, to a great extent, their 
novelty. It is conceived, that the book is adapted 
to serve as a first-class reading book, in schools, and as 
a text book for Elocution Classes at Literary In- 
stitutions. 

It is, perhaps, hardly necessary to urge the import- 
ance of the study and practice of elocution,— 
particularly the latter, — for the greatest writers of 
all ages have borne testimony to the wonderful influ- 
ence which oratorical power exerts over mankind. It 
has been well observed, that speeches of indifferent 
quality, well spoken, always produce an infinitely 
greater effect than those which, though far superior 
as literary compositions, have been tamely or mono- 
tously delivered; and that " even in the senate, the 
pulpit, and at the bar, the finest sentiments and the 
most brilliant ideas are often rendered ineffective by 
the monotonous, inappropriate, ungraceful, inani- 
mate manner in which they are uttered." — (Mr. Len- 
nington's Speaker). This defect, which is frequently 
alluded to and deplored by the best writers of 
the day, might be remedied, if the study and prac- 
tice of the elements of elocution were included in the 



Vlll PREFACE. 

curriculum of our public and private schools generally ; 
followed up, if needed, by a higher course of study of 
the same subject at the Universities. It was well ob- 
served by Mr. Walker in his ' * Speaker" published 
upwards of sixty years since, — and the observation, 
with but few exceptions, is equally just now, — " that 
the systems which had hitherto been promulgated 
were too delicate and complicated to be taught in 
schools;" and in accordance with this opinion, he 
enumerates only the more important inflections and 
modulations in a very succinct and practical manner, — 
describing more in detail, the principal gestures and 
positions suitable for delineating certain emotions, 
accompanying his remarks, in unison with the dictum 
of Horace, 

" Segnius irritant animos demissa per aurem 
Quam quae sunt oculis subjecta fidelibus, et quae, 
Ipse sibi tradet spectator" QArs Poetica), 
with a few, perhaps too few, appropriate diagrams. 
My own views upon this subject are so nearly allied 
to those of Mr. Walker, that I have availed myself 
of his valuable treatise to a considerable extent, in the 
brief hints conveyed in the succeeding introductory 
pages; differing from him, however, very greatly 
in the selections made in elucidation of the principles 
laid down. 

The accompanying illustrations have been engraved 
from photographs of two of my pupils, taken by 
myself, expressly for this work. I think that they will 
be found to comprehend all the leading positions, — 
both absolute and relative. 

In conclusion, I would venture, with much diffi- 
dence, to express a hope that my fellow-labourers in 
education, who may have experienced the difficulties 
1 have described, in finding selections in every way 
suitable for school recitations, will consider that this 
compilation does, in a great measure, — if not wholly, — 
supply the desideratum. 



CONTENTS. 



Introduction- - 




PAGE 

1 


SELECTIONS IN VERSE. 




Address to Mont Blanc - - - - - 


Coleridge 


17 


Casabianca ------ 


Mrs. Hemans - 


19 


Cato's Soliloquy on the Immortality of the 






Soul 


Addison - 


20 


Childe Harold's Song - 


Byron 


21 


Gertrude Von Der Wart - 


Mrs. Hemans - 


23 


Ginevra ------- 


Rogers - 


25 


Hamlet's Soliloquy on Death - - - 


Shakespere 


28 


Henry V. to his Soldiers at the Battle of 






Agincourt - - . - 


Shakespere 


28 


Joan of Arc's Address to the King of France 


Southey - 


30 


Josephus the Historian's Address to his 






Countrymen - - - - - 


Milman - 


31 


Lines Written for Recitation, on occasion 








R. E. Bowler - 


32 


Lochinvar ------ 


Scott 


35 


Man's Three Guests - - 


Sigourney 


36 


Marco Bozzaris ------ 


Halleck - 


38 


Mary, Queen of Scots - - - - 


H G. Bell - 


41 


Mary, the Maid of the Inn .... 


Southey - 


45 


Messiah — A Sacred Eclogue - - - 


Pope 


48 


Monody on the Death of the Right Hon. 








Byron 


51 


Ode to Winter ------ 


Campbell - 


53 


The Bard - - - - . - 


Gray 


55 


The Battle-field ------ 


Bryant - 


59 


The Battle of Blenheim - - - - 


Addison - 


60 


The Battle of Hohenlinden - 


Campbell - 


61 


The Battle of Minden - - - - 


Darwin - 


62 


The Captive 


Lewis 


64 


The Combat - - - 


Scott 


66 


The Corsair ------ 


Byron 


69 


The Death of Marmion - - - - 


Scott 


72 


The Downfall of Poland - 


Campbell - 


76 


The Fall of Corinth - 


Byron 


77 


The Field of Waterloo - - - • - 


Ibid 


81 


The Grave of Korner - 


Mrs. Hemans - 


83 



X CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

The Isles of Greece - Byron 84 

The Last Days of Herculaneum - - Atherstone - 87 

The Leper Willis - - 90 

The Parting of Hector and Andromache - Pope's Homer - 92 

The Passions ------ Collins - - 95 

The Plains of Marathon - Byron - - 97 

The Pleasures of Hope - Campbell - - 99 

The Prospect of Immortality - - -Ibid - . - 101 

The Spanish Armada - Soutkey - - 103 

The Surgeon's Tale - Barry Cornwall 104 

William Tell's Speech - Sheridan Knovole% 106 

SELECTIONS IN PROSE. 

Ancient Oeatoey. 

C. Marius to the Romans - - - - - - - 108 

Galgacus to the Caledonii - - - - - - 111 

Hannibal to his Soldiers - - - - - - - 113 

Junius Brutus over the dead body of Lucretia - - - 116 

Oration against Catiline - - - - - - - 117 

Oration against Verres - - - - - - - 120 

Speech of Scipio to the Roman Army - - - - 124 

Speech of Titus Quintius to the Roman People - - - 127 

The Scythian Ambassador to Alexander - - - - 129 

MODEEN OEATOEY. 

Defence of Queen Caroline - Brougham - 132 

Eulogium on Mr. Fox - - - - B. B. Sheridan 1 35 

Inaugural Discourse --- - Brougham - 137 
Napoleon Buonaparte's Proclamation on his Return from 

Elba 140 

Reply of Lord Chatham to Horace Walpole - - - 142 

Rolla to the Peruvians - Sheridan- - 143 

Speech in the House of Peers against the 

American War - Lord Chatham- 144 

Speech against the Printer and Publisher 

of the " Age of Reason " - - - Lord Er shine - 147 

Speech against Warren Hastings - - Sheridan- - 150 
Speech of Lord Strafford, before Sentence passed on him by 

the Lords for Treason - - - - - - 152 

Speech on the breaking out of the War of 

American Independence - Patrick Henry - 154 

Speech (1 753) for Repealing the Act called 

the Jew Bill Lord Lyttelton - 156 

Speech on the Second Reading of the Re- 
form Bill, in the House of Lords - Lord Brougham 158 
Speech for Hamilton Rowan - Curran - - 161 

DIALOGUES. 

Arthur and Hubert.— Iting John - - Shakeapere - 164 



CONTENTS. 



XI 



Brutus and Cassius. — Julius Caesar. First 

Selection - Skakespere 

Brutus and Cassius.— Julius Caesar. Second 

Selection- ----- Ibid 

Coriolanus and Aufidius.— Coriolanus - Thomson - 
Edward and Warwick. — Earl of Warwick Southern - 
Gloster and Hastings. — Jane Shore - - Howe 
Gustavus and Cristiern - Brooke - 

Hamlet and Horatio. — Hamlet- - - Shakespere 
King John and Hubert. -*- King John - Ibid 
Lioni and Bertram. — Marino Faliero - Byron 
Lochiel and Wizard. — Lochiel's Warning - Campbell - 
Lord Avondale and Tyke.— The School of 

Reform - Morton - 

Manfred and Chamois Hunter.— Manfred - Byron 
Orestes Delivering his Embassy to Pyrrhus Howe 
Sebastian and Dorax. — Sebastian, King of 

Portugal Dryden - 

Sir Edward Mortimer and Wilford. — The 

Iron Chest ----- Colmcm - 
Vanoc and Valens. — The Briton - - Anon 



PAGE 
167 

171 
175 
177 
181 
183 
186 
189 
191 
195 

200 
197 
203 

206 

211 
215 



SCENES ARRANGED FROM DRAMATIC WRITERS. 



Barbarossa - Brown - 

Cato's Senate ------ Addison - 

Coriolanus, Menenius, etc. — Coriolanus - Shakespere 

Douglas - - - = - Home 

Henry IV. — Part I. First Selection - Shakespere 

Henry IV. — Part I. Second Selection - Ibid 

Ion - - Talfourd- 

Julius Caesar. First Selection - Shakespere 

Julius Caesar. Second Selection - - Ibid 

Julius Caesar. Third Selection - - Ibid 

Marino Faliero - - - - - Byron 

Rienzi. First Selection - Miss Mitford 

Rienzi. Second Selection - Ibid 

Richard II. ----- - Shakespere 

Romeo and Juliet - - - - Ibid 

The Maid of Honour - Massinger 

The Merchant of Venice. First Selection Shakespere 

The Merchant of Venice. Second Selection Ibid 

The Two Foscari ----- Byron 

Venice Preserved. First Selection - - Otioay - 

Venice Preserved. Second Selection - Ibid 

Werner ------- Byron 

HUMOROUS PIECES. 



Address to an Egyptian Mummy 
Bullum v. Boatum - - - 
Daniel v. Dishclout 



- Horace Smith 

- G. A. Stevens 

- Ibid 



219 
223 
227 
233 
236 
242 
245 
252 
256 
259 
265 
270 
275 
278 
284 
287 
291 
295 
303 
306 
310 
316 



323 
325 
327 



CONTENTS. 



Drunken Politeness - - - Colman - 
Hodge and the Vicar - Anon 
Lodgings for Single Gentlemen - - Colman - 
Logic ; or, The Biter Bit - Anon 
Mr. Barney Maguire's Account of the Co- 
ronation of Queen Victoria - - Barham - 
Mrs. Dobbs at Home - - - - Horace Smith 
Mrs. Rose Grob ----- Ibid 
The Collegian and the Porter - Ibid 
The Country Fellows and the Ass - - Dr. Byrom 
The Doctor and his Apprentice - - Anon 
The Parmer and the Counsellor - - Horace Smith 
The Parmer's Wife and the Gascon - - Ibid 
The Newcastle Apothecary - Colman - 
The Razor-seller ----- Dr. Walcot 
The Surgeon and the House Painters - Horace Smith 
The Three Black Crows - Dr. Byrom 
The Tinker and the Glazier - Anon 
The Town and Country Mice - - - Pope 
The Well of St. Keyne - - - - Southey - 
" Vat You Please "- - Anon 

SCENES ARRANGED FROM COMEDIES. 



Every Man in his Humour 

Lethe ------ 

Sylvester Daggerwood _ - - 

The Critic. Pirst Selection - 

The Critic. Second Selection - 

The Heir at Law. Pirst Selection - 

The Heir at Law. Second Selection 

The Heir at Law. Third Selection - 

The Liar - 

The Poor Gentleman - 

The Review ----- 

The Rivals. Pirst Selection - 
The Rivals Second Selection 
The Rivals. Third Selection - 
The Rivals. Pourth Selection 
Who wants a Guinea? - 

DEBATES. 

Are the Mental Capacities of the Sexes 

Equal? ------ Rowton 

Parliamentary Debate on a Resolution for 
the Admission of Ladies to the Gallery 
of the House of Commons, during the 
Debates ------- Burton 



Ben Jonson 
Foote 
Colman - 
Sheridan - 
Ibid 

Colman - 
Ibid 
Ibid 
Foote 
Colman - 
Ibid 

Sheridan - 
Ibid 
Ibid 
Ibid 
Colman - 



337 
339 
342 
345 
347 
349 
351 
352 
355 
357 
358 
361 
363 
365 
367 
368 



372 
375 

378 
383 
386 
390 
393 
397 
400 
403 
408 
411 
415 
417 
419 
422 



425 



435 



THE 

PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 



INTRODUCTION. 

Elocution may be defined to be the art of reading 
and speaking according to some established standard 
of excellence ; and is naturally subdivided as follows : 

1. Articulation and pronunciation. 

2 . Inflection and modulation. 

3. Emphasis. 

4. Gesture and Action. 

1. The importance of distinct articulation and cor- 
rect pronunciation, renders it incumbent upon every 
one aspiring to skill in elocution, to devote considerable 
attention at an early age to careful reading under the 
correction of a master, until those objects have been 
attained. 

2. Inflection and Modulation have reference to the 
changes of tone, and pauses of the voice, suitable for 
the expression of certain ideas and passions. The 
inflections are three in number : — The Acute ( ' ), the 
Grave ( v ), and the Circumflex ( A ). 

The acute accent is used to represent the rising 
inflection, or that upward turn of the voice which we 
generally use at the comma, or in asking a question 
which begins with a verb; as, " Did he say, No?" 

The grave accent is used to denote the falling inflec- 
tion, which is generally used at the colon and semicolon, 
and must necessarily be heard in answer to the former 



2 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

question: " He did; lie said, No." Both these inflec- 
tions are found in the following passage: — 
" Does Csesar deserve fame, or blame ?" 

The slide upward, primarily, signifies suspension or 
incompleteness; and the downward slide, completion; 
the former should be used wherever the hand and 
eye must necessarily be elevated in action; as for 
example, when exalted ideas, amiable and exhilarating 
sentiments, or ennobling attributes are alluded to ; and 
the latter, when the contraries of these are mentioned. 

The circumflex, which is subdivided into the rising 
and falling circumflex, is a combination of the acute 
and gr*ave accents, — the rising being marked thus ( A ) ; 
and the falling, thus ( v ). When a syllable begins with 
the falling, and ends with a rising inflection, it is said 
to have a rising circumflex ; but when it begins with a 
rising and ends with a falling inflection, a falling 
circumflex. These two forms of the circumflex are 
frequently used in words spoken ironically. We have 
examples ofboth in the following passage : — 

" Hear him, my lord; he is wondrous condescending." 

Certain passages require a continuance of one tone 
through many words, and, occasionally, through lines : 
this is called a monotone ; it is usually indicated by the 
mark of a long vowel, thus " ; and is well exemplified 
in the middle paragraph of the following passage from 
Portia's speech on mercy: — 

PERSUASIVE ENTREATY ; SOFT, MIDDLE TONE. 

The quality of mercy is not strain'd ; 
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heav'n 
Upon the place beneath. It is twice bless' d ; 
It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes ; 
'Tis mightiest, in the mightiest ; it becomes 
The throned monarch better than his crown. 

SOLEMN MONOTONE ; LOWER. 

His sceptre shows the force of temporal power, 

The attribute to awe and majesty, 

Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings : 



INTRODUCTION. 3 

RAPTURE ; HIGH, STRONG TONE. 

But mercy is above this scepter' d sway, 

It is enthroned in the hearts of kings ; 

It is an attribute to God himself ; 

And earthly power doth then show likest God's, 

When mercy seasons justice. 

Parenthetical clauses require to be spoken in a lower 
tone of voice, and with a more rapid utterance than 
the principal sentence ; — a slight pause both before and 
after the parenthesis, adds to the effect : — ■ 

" If there's a power above us ; 
(And that there is, all nature cries aloud 
Through all her works), he must delight in virtue ; 
And that which he delights in, must be happy." 

Addison. 

3. Emphasis is that peculiar stress which we lay on 
words when we wish to impress particularly the ideas 
that they represent. 

The more important emphatic words are — principal 
verbs, nouns, adjectives, and adverbs when not used in 
a connective sense. The comparatively unimportant 
words are — auxiliary verbs, pronouns, conjunctions, con- 
necting adverbs, prepositions, and articles. Generally, 
also, the names and attributes of the Deity, of persons 
and places, are emphatic. Emphasis is well illustrated 
in the following remark : — 

I do not dsJcj I demand your attention. 

Words are also emphatic which have an antithesis 
either expressed or understood, as in the following 
example : — 

" And put a tongue 
In every wound of Csesar, that should move 
The stones of Rome to rise and mutiny." 

It may also be laid down as a general rule respecting 
emphasis, that the positive member of a sentence uni- 



4 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

formly requires the emphatic falling, and the negative 
member the emphatic rising, inflection, as, — 

Did he do it voluntarily, or involuntarily ? 
He did it voluntarily, not involuntarily. 
Did he act justly, or unjustly ? 
He acted justly, not unjustly. 

4. Gestuee and Action. — By gesture is meant 
a suitable conformity of the countenance, the eyes in 
particular, and of the parts of the body generally, with 
the sentiments uttered; and we have the authority of 
Cicero, that — 

" Its power is greater than that of words." 

The seat of these gestures is not fixed to this or 
that particular portion of the body — the soul exercises 
an equal power over all the muscles ; every one of them 
may be figuratively said to speak in the celebrated 
Group of the Laocoon.* 

Nothing can be more absurd and unnatural than 
that a boy should stand motionless while he is pro- 
nouncing the most impassioned language, or, in a care- 
less or awkward position, with an ungainly and desultory 
action. What then remains, but that such a general 
style of action be adopted as shall be easily conceived, 
and easily executed; and this can be best achieved by 
reference to the diagrams accompanying these remarks. 
The leading positions are as follow : — 

1. Opening. 

2. Deprecatory. 

3. Emphatic. 

4. Invocatory. 

5. Entreaty and Denial. 

6. Kelative. 

7. Kepose. 
A speaker about to address his auditory, should, 

before beginning his speech, cast a diffident glance 

* Siddons on Gesture and Action. 



INTRODUCTION. 



around him, and then take up, as nearly as possible, 
the position represented in diagram 1. The whole 



DIAGRAM I. OPENING POSITION. 

weight of the body should be thrown upon the right leg, 
which should be a little in advance of the left, the other 
just touching the ground, the feet being separated about 
six or eight inches ; the knees should be straight and 
braced, and the body — though perfectly straight — not 
perpendicular, but inclining as far to the right as a firm 
position on the right leg will permit. The right arm 
must then be extended, with the palm of the hand open, 
the fingers slightly curved, and the thumb almost as dis- 
tant from them as it will easily go, and the flat of the hand 
neither horizontal nor vertical, but exactly between 
both, the left hand hanging gracefully by the side ; the 
extended arm should drop apparently lifeless, but not 
too abruptly, when the last emphatic word is pro- 



6 THE PKACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

nounced. When the pupil has delivered one sentence 
of moderate length, or one paragraph in this attitude, 
he should, at the moment of commencing a fresh one, 
reverse his position; doing with the left arm, hand, and 
leg, what he has just done with the right. 

A perpetual see-saw of the arms, which may be too 
frequently remarked in the elocutionary tyro, is to be 
studiously avoided: — 

" Let your discretion be your tutor : suit the action to 
the word, the word to the action ; with this special observ- 
ance, that you o'erstep not the modesty of nature." 

Shakespere. 

When both hands are used, except under certain 
circumstances, which will be explained under diagram 
4, the advanced foot should be drawn rather back, and 
the speaker should stand in a firm and erect posture. 
Occasionally, also, when speaking of ourselves, in con- 
tradistinction to others, or when giving utterance to 
some pathetic sentiment, the right hand should be 
placed on the left breast. AVhen anything low is men- 
tioned, the eye and hand should be directed downwards. 
It is almost impossible to give minute instructions to 
meet every case; but, as a general rule, the action and 
utterance should be strictly in unison with the senti- 
ment uttered. 

Diagram 2. — When the pupil has acquired some little 
proficiency in the use of the hand and arm, he should 
be taught to move them in accordance with the general 
directions just given. This diagram represents a 
position suitable for the delivery of a passage of this 
kind : — 

" Not that I might draw envy upon that illustrious order 
of which the accused happens to be." — Cicero v. Verres. 

or, indeed, any passage where a corrective idea is to 
be expressed, or one moderately emphatic. 

Generally, also, as the action becomes more ener- 



INTRODUCTION. 



getic, the distance between the feet should be gradually 
increased. 




DIAGRAM II. DEPRECATORY POSITION. 

Diagram 3. — Kepresents a position suitable for the de- 
livery of a highly emphatic sentiment. The arm should 
be gradually raised from the position shown in diagram 
1, until the hand is at the level of the head, the palm of 
the hand being presented flat, or nearly so, towards the 
audience, diagram 3 («), the arm should then be brought, 
suddenly and with decision, to the position shown in 
diagram 3 (b). Care must be taken that the body is 
maintained in a straight line with the leg on which it 
bears, and not suffered to lean to the opposite side. 
The attitude represented in this diagram would be 
suitable for the delivery of passages similar to these : — 
"I'll keep them all ; 
By Heaven ! he shall not have a Scot of them ; 
No, if a Scot would save his soul, he shall not : 
I'll keep them by this hand." Shakespere. 



8 



THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 



" The blood-thirsty prsetor, deaf to all he could urge in 
his own defence, ordered the infamous punishment to be 
inflicted." — Cicero v. Verres. 




DIAGRAM III. EMPHATIC POSITIONS. 



Diagram 4. — The invocatory position should be used 
when the speaker has to make a vehement appeal to 
Heaven; or when sentiments of a very elevated or 
patriotic character have to be delivered, — as is frequently 
the case in the perorations of the speeches of the great 
orators of antiquity. It must be remembered, also, 
that the eyes, and the countenance generally, should 
be directed upwards, following, as it were, the lead 
of the hand. The position represented in this dia- 
gram would be proper in delivering such passages as 
follow : — 



" Hail, holy light 



offspring of heaven first born," 

Milton. 



INTRODUCTION. 9 

ADDRESS TO MONT BLANC, 

******* Rise, O ever rise ! 
Rise like a cloud of incense from the earth ! 
Thou kingly spirit throned among the hills, 
Thou dread ambassador from earth to heaven, 
Great Hierarch ! tell thou the silent sky, 
And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun, 
Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God." 

Coleridge. 

invective v. warren hastings. 
* * * " breathing their last and fervent prayer, that 
the dry earth might not be suffered to drink their blood, 
but that it might rise up to the throne of God, and rouse 
the eternal Providence to avenge the wrongs of their 
country." — Sheridan. 

PERORATION OF THE ORATION AGAINST VERRES. 

" O liberty ! — O sound once delightful to every Roman ear ! 
O sacred privilege of Roman citizenship ! — Once sacred, 
now trampled upon !" — Cicero. 




DIAGRAM IV. INVOCATORY POSITION. 

B 5 



10 



THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 



Diagram 5. — Figures (a) and (Z>), in this diagram, 
represent two speakers in a dialogue ; the former in an 
attitude of entreaty, and the latter of denial. 




DIAGRAM V. — ENTREATY AND DENIAL. 

Diagram 6. — This diagram shows the position in 
which a boy should stand, who is being addressed by 
another. A speaker who delivers himself singly to an 
auditory, and one who addresses another speaker in 
view of an auditory, are under very different predica- 
ments; — the first, has only one object to address — the 
latter, has two; for, if a speaker were to address the 
person to whom he speaks, without any regard to the 
point of view in which he stands with respect to the 
audience, he would be apt to turn his back upon them, 
and to place himself in ungraceful positions. In a 
dialogue, each speaker should stand obliquely, thus,— 



/ 



audience. 



\ and chiefly make use of one hand only, and 



INTRODUCTION. 



11 



that one most remote from the audience, throwing 
the weight of the body also on that side. It must be 




DIAGRAM VI. RELATIVE POSITIONS. 

carefully noted, that when a boy is not speaking, the 
arms must hang naturally by the sides, unless what is 
spoken by one, is of such importance as to excite agita- 
tion and surprise in the other; or he may, with 
propriety, occasionally stand with his arms folded, or 
with the right hand in the left breast, or the reverse, 
as shown in diagram 7. Where more than two 
speakers are introduced, as in some extracts from plays, 
the speakers should be arranged in a picturesque 
manner, agreeably to the laws of perspective ; and it is 
in these scenes that the positions of repose, represented 
in diagram 7, maybe most advantageously introduced. 
In the delineation of character, the most unerring 



12 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

guide is nature. If the speaker possess sufficient judg- 
ment and skill, and allow himself to be actuated solely 
by the feelings he may be endeavouring to portray, he 
will rarely err.* 

The compiler has to acknowledge his deep obliga- 
tions to William Creswick, Esq., for several valuable 
suggestions in the remarks on Gesture and Action. 



Rhetorical Punctuation. 

The following simple and useful rules are extracted 
from Mr. Walker's Rhetorical Grammar. The pause 
is to be made on the word immediately preceding the 
slanting line, thus /. 

RULE I. 

When a nominative consists of more than one word, 
it is necessary to pause after it. 

Example. 

" The great and invincible Alexander,/ wept for the fate of 
Darius." 

RULE II. 

Whatever member intervenes between the nomina- 
tive case and the verb, is of the nature of a parenthesis, 
and must be separated from both of them, by a short 
pause. 

Example. 

" Money,/ like manure,/ does no good till it is spread." 

* Quintilian mentions having seen actors, who, after 
performing pathetic characters, wept and sobbed for a long 
time after they had laid aside their masks. 

" Vidi ego ssepe histriones atque comcedos, cum ex 
aliquo graviore actu personam deposuissent, flentes adhuc 
egredi," 



INTKODUCTION. 



13 




INTRODUCTION. 15 

RULE III. 

Whatever member intervenes between the verb and 
the accusative case, is of the nature of a parenthesis, 
and must be separated from both by a short pause. 

Example. 
" I knew a person who possessed the faculty of distin- 
guishing flavours in so great a perfection, that, after having 
tasted ten different kinds of tea, he could distinguish,/ — 
without seeing the colour of it,/ — the particular sort which 
was offered him." Addison. 

RULE IV. 

Whatever words are put into the case absolute, must 
fee separated from the rest by a pause. 

Example. 

" If a man borrow ought of his neighbour, and it be hurt, 
or die,/ the owner thereof being with it,/ — he shall surely 
make it good." 

RULE V. 

Words or phrases in apposition, or when the latter 
only explain the former, — have a short pause between 
them. 

Example. 

1. " Spencer,/ the poet,/ lived in the reign of Queen 
Elizabeth." 

2. " Hope,/ the balm of life,/ soothes us under every 
misfortune." 

RULE VI. 

Who and which, when relative pronouns, and that, 
when it stands for who and which, always admit of a 
pause before them. 

Examples. 

1. "A man can never be obliged to submit to any power, 
unless he can be satisfied,/ whois the person,/ who has 
a right to exercise it." Locke. 

2. " Many of Johnson's works,/ which you so much 
admire,/ were written in great haste." 



16 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

3. " Nothing is in vain,/ that rouses the soul : nothing 
in vain,/ that keeps the ethereal fire alive and glowing." 

RULE VII. 

When that is used as a casual conjunction, it ought 
always to be preceded by a short pause. 

Example. 

" The custom and familiarity of these tongues do some- 
times so far influence the expressions in these epistles,/ that 
one may observe the force of the Hebrew conjugation." 

Locke. 
RULE VIII. 
Where there is no pause in the sense at the end of a 
verse, the last word must have exactly the same inflec- 
tion it would have in prose. 

Example. 
" Over their heads a crystal firmament, 
Whereon a sapphire throne, inlaid with pure 
Amber, and colours of the flow'ry arch." 

Milton. 
RULE IX. 
In reading blank verse, care must be taken to steer 
between the one extreme of ending every line with a 
pause ; and the other, of running one line into another 
more rapidly than in prose. 

RULE X. 

A simile, in poetry, ought always to be read in a 
lower tone of voice than that part of the passage which 
precedes it. 

Sublime, grand, and magnificent description in 
poetry, requires a lower tone of voice, and a sameness 
nearly approaching to a monotone. 



SELECTIONS IN VERSE. 



ADDRESS TO MONT BLANC. 

Hast thou a charm to stay the morning-star 
In his steep course ? So long he seems to pause 
On thy bald awful head, O sovran Blanc ! 
The Arve and Arveiron at thy base 
Rave ceaselessly ; but thou, most awful form ! 
Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines, 
How silently ! around thee and above 
Deep is the air and dark, substantial black — 
An ebon mass : methinks thou piercest it, 
As with a wedge ! but, when I look again, 
It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine — 
Thy habitation from eternity ! 

dread and silent mount ! I gazed upon thee, 
Till thou, still present to the bodily sense, 

Didst vanish from my thought : entranced in prayer, 

1 worshipped the Invisible alone. 

Yet, like some sweet, beguiling melody, 
So sweet, we know not we are listening to it, 
Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my thoughts ; 
Yea, with my life, and life's own secret joy : 
Till the dilating soul, enrapt, transfused, 
Into the mighty vision passing — there, 
As in her natural form, swelled vast to heaven ! 

Awake, my soul ! not only passive praise 
Thou owest ! not alone these swelling tears, 
Mute thanks and secret ecstasy ! awake, 
Voice of sweet song ! awake, my heart, awake ! 
Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my hymn. 

Thou first and chief, sole sovran of the vale ! 
O struggling with the darkness all the night ! 
And visited all night by troops of stars ; 
Or when they climb the sky, or when they sink ; 
Companion of the morning- star at dawn, 
Thyself earth's rosy star, and of the dawn 



18 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Co-herald ! wake, O wake, and utter' praise ! 
Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth ? 
Who filled thy countenance with rosy light ? 
Who made thee parent of perpetual streams ? 

And you, ye five wild torrents, fiercely glad ! 
Who called you forth from night and utter death, 
From dark and icy caverns called you forth, 
Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks, 
For ever shattered, and the same for ever ? 
Who gave you your invulnerable life, 
Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy, 
Unceasing thunder, and eternal foam ? 
And who commanded (and the silence came), 
" Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest ?" 

Ye ice -falls ! ye that from the mountain's brow 
Adown enormous ravines slope amain — 
Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice, 
And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge ! 
Motionless torrents ! silent cataracts ! 
Who made you glorious as the gates of heaven 
Beneath the keen full moon ? Who bade the sun 
Clothe you with rainbows ? Who, with living flowers, 
Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet ? 
God ! let the torrents, like a shout of nations, 
Answer ! and let the ice-plains echo, God ! 
God ! sing, ye meadow- streams, with gladsome voice ! 
Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds ; 
And they, too, have a voice, yon piles of snow, 
And, in their perilous fall, shall thunder, God! 

Ye living flowers, that skirt the eternal frost ! 
Ye wild goats, sporting round the eagle's nest ! 
Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain storm ! 
Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds! 
Ye signs and wonders of the element! 
Utter forth, God ! and fill the hills with praise ! 

Once more, hoar mount ! with thy sky-pointing peaks, 
Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard, 
Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene, 



SELECTIONS IN VERSE. 19 

Into the depths of clouds that veil thy breast — 

Thou, too, again, stupendous mountain ! thou, 

That as I raise my head, awhile bowed low 

In adoration, upward from thy base, 

Slow travelling, with dim eyes suffused with tears, 

Solemnly seemest, like a vapoury cloud, 

To rise before me — rise, O ever rise ! 

Rise, like a cloud of incense, from the earth ! 

Thou kingly spirit, throned among the hills, 

Thou dread ambassador from earth to heaven, 

Great Hierarch ! tell thou the silent sky, 

And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun, 

Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God ! 

Coleridge. 



CASABIANCA. 

The boy stood on the burning deck, 
Whence all but he had fled ; 

The flame that lit the battle wreck, 
Shone round him o'er the dead. 

Yet beautiful and bright he stood, 
As born to rule the storm ; 

A creature of heroic blood, 
A proud, tho' child-like form. 

The flames roll'd on — he would not go, 
Without his father's word ; 

That father, faint in death below, 
His voice no longer heard. 

He called aloud, — " Say, father, say, 
" If yet my task be done ? " 

He knew not, that the chieftain lay 
Unconscious of his son. 

" Speak, father!" once again he cried, 

" If I may yet be gone ! 
And" — but the booming shots replied, 

And fast the flames roll'd on. 



20 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Upon his brow he felt their breath, 

And on his waving hair ; 
And looked, from that lone post of death, 

In still, yet brave despair ; 

And shouted but once more aloud, 

" My father ! must I stay?" 
While o'er him fast, thro' sail and shroud, 

The wreathing fires made way. 

They wrapped the ship in splendour wild ; 

They caught the flag on high ; 
And streamed above the gallant child, 

Like banners in the sky. 

Then came a burst of thundering sound — 

The boy — oh! where was he? — 
Ask of the winds that far around 

With fragments strew'd the sea. 

With mast and helm, and pennon fair, 

That well had borne their part ; 
But the noblest thing that perish'd there, 

Was that young faithful heart. 

Mrs. Hemans. 



CATO'S SOLILOQUY ON THE IMMORTALITY OF 
THE SOUL. • 

It must be so — Plato, thou reason'st well, 

Else whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire, 

This longing after immortality ? 

Or whence this secret dread and inward horror 

Of falling into nought ? Why shrinks the soul 

Back on herself, and startles at destruction ? 

'Tis the divinity that stirs within us ; 

'Tis heaven itself that points out an hereafter, 

And intimates eternity to man. 

Eternity ! thou pleasing dreadful thought ! 

Through what variety of untried being, 

Through what new scenes and changes must we pass ? 



SELECTIONS IN VERSE. 21 

The wide, th' unbounded prospect lies before me ; 

But shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon it. 

Here will I hold. If there's a Power above us, 

(And that there is, all nature cries aloud 

Through all her works), he must delight in virtue, 

And that which he delights in must be happy. 

But when, or where ? This world was made for Csesar. 

I'm weary of conjectures — this must end them. 

Thus am I doubly arm'd. My death and life, 

My bane and antidote, are both before me. 

This, in a moment, brings me to an end ; 

But this informs me I shall never die. 

The soul, secured in her existence, smiles 

At the drawn dagger, and defies its point : 

The stars shall fade away, the sun himself 

Grow dim with age, and nature sink in years ; 

But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth 

Unhurt amidst the war of elements, 

The wreck of matter, and the crash of worlds. 

Addison. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S SONG. 

Adieu ! adieu ! My native shore 

Fades o'er the waters blue; 
The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar, 

And shrieks the wild sea-mew. 

Yon sun that sets upon the sea, 

We follow in his flight ; 
Farewell awhile to him and thee, 

My native land — good night ! 

A few short hours, and he will rise 

To give the morrow birth ; 
And I shall hail the main and skies, 

But not my mother earth. 

Deserted is my own good hall, 

Its hearth is desolate ; 
Wild weeds are gathering on the wall — 

My dog howls at the gate. 



22 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Come hither, hither, my little page, 
Why dost thou weep and wail ? 

Or dost thou dread the billow's rage, 
Or tremble at the gale ? 

But dash the tear-drop from thine eye ; 

Our ship is swift and strong : 
Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly 

More merrily along. 

" Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high, 
" I fear not wave nor wind; 

" Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I 
" Am sorrowful in mind ; 

" For I have from my father gone, 

" A mother whom I love, 
" And have no friend save these alone, 

" But thee: — and One above. 

l( My father bless'd me fervently, 
" Yet did not much complain ; 

11 But sorely will my mother sigh, 
" Till I come back again." 

Enough, enough, my little lad, 
Such tears become thine eye — 

If I thy guileless bosom had, 
Mine own would not be dry ! 

Come hither, hither, my staunch yeoman, 
Why dost thou look so pale ? 

Or dost thou dread a French foeman, 
Or shiver at the gale ? 

*' Deem'st thou I tremble for my life ? 

" Sir Childe, I'm not so weak ; 
" But thinking on an absent wife 

" Will blanch a faithful cheek. 

" My spouse and boys dwell near thy hall, 
" Along the bordering lake ; 

" And when they on their father call, 
" What answer shall she make ?" 



SELECTIONS IN VERSE. 23 

Enough, enough, my yeoman good, 

Thy grief let none gainsay ; 
But I, that am of lighter mood, 

Will laugh to flee away. 

For who would trust the seeming sighs 

Of wife or paramour ? 
Fresh feres will dry the bright blue eyes, 

We late saw streaming o'er. 

For pleasures past I do not grieve, 

Nor perils gathering near; 
My greatest grief is — that I leave 

No thing that claims a tear. 

And now I'm in the world alone, 

Upon the wide, wide sea : 
But why should I for others groan, 

When none will sigh for me ? 

Perchance my dog wi]l whine in vain, 

Till fed by stranger-hands; 
But, long e'er I come back again, 

He'd tear me where he stands. 

With thee, my bark, I'll swiftly go 

Athwart the foaming brine ; 
Nor care what land thou bear'st me to, 

So not again to mine ! 

Welcome, welcome, ye dark blue waves ! 

And when you fail my sight, 
Welcome, ye deserts and ye caves ! 

My native land — good night ! Byron. 



GERTRUDE VON DER WART. 

She is supposed to be standing near the rack on which her 
husband is perishing. 

Her hands were clasp'd, her dark eyes raised, 

The breeze threw back her hair ; 
Up to the fearful wheel she gazed — 

All that she loved was there. 



24 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

The night was round her clear and cold, 

The holy heaven above ; 
Its pale stars watching to behold 

The might of earthly love. 

" And bid me not depart," she cried, 

" My Rudolph, say not so ! 
" This is no time to quit thy side ; 

" Peace, peace, I cannot go. 
" Hath the world aught for me to fear, 

" When death is on thy brow ? 
" The world ! what means it ? — mine is here 

" I will not leave thee now. 

" I have been with thee in thine hour 

"Of glory and of bliss ; 
" Doubt not its memory's living power 

" To strengthen me through this ! 
" And thou, mine honour'd love and true, 

" Bear on, bear nobly on ! 
" We have the blessed heaven in view, 

" Whose rest shall soon be won." 

And were not these high words to flow 

From woman's breaking heart ? 
Through all that night of bitterest woe 

She bore her lofty part ; 
But oh ! with such a glazing eye, 

With such a curdling cheek — 
Love, love ! of mortal agony 

Thou, only thou, should'st speak ! 

The wind rose high, but with it rose 

Her voice, that he might hear : 
Perchance that dark hour brought repose, 

To happy bosoms near, 
While she sat striving with despair 

Beside his tortured form, 
And pouring her deep soul in prayer 

Forth on the rushing storm. 



SELECTIONS IN VERSE. 25 

She wiped the death- damps from his brow, 

With her pale hands and soft, 
Whose touch upon the lute chords low, 

HadsthTd his heart so oft. 
She spread her mantle o'er his breast, 

She bathed his lips with dew, 
And on his cheeks such kisses prest 

As hope and joy ne'er knew. 

O lovely are ye, Love and Faith 

Enduring to the last ! 
She had her meed — one smile in death— 

And his worn spirit pass'd. 
While e'en as o'er a martyr's grave, 

She knelt on that sad spot ; 
And weeping, bless'd the God who gave 

Strength to forsake it not ! Mrs. Hemans. 



GINEVRA. 

If thou shouldst ever come by choice or chance 
To Modena, where still religiously 
Among her ancient trophies is preserved 
Bologna's bucket (in its chain it hangs, 
Within that reverend tower — the Guirlandine), 
Stop at a palace near the Reggio-gate, 
Dwelt in of old by one of the Orsini. 
Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace, 
And rich in fountains, statues, cypresses, 
Will long; detain thee : through their arched walks 
Dim at noon- day, discovering many a glimpse 
Of knights and dames, such as in old romance — 
And lovers, such as in heroic song — 
Perhaps the two — for groves were their delight, 
That in the spring-time, as alone they sat, 
Venturing together on a tale of love, 
Read only part that day. A summer's sun 
Sets ere one half is seen ; but, ere thou go, 
Enter the house — prythee, forget it not — 
And look awhile upon a picture there. 

c 



26 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Tis of a lady in her earliest youth ; 

The very last of that illustrious race, 

Done by Zampieri — but I care not whom. 

He, who observes it, ere he passes on, 

Gazes his fill, and comes and comes again, 

That he may call it up when far away. 

She sits, inclining forward as to speak ; 

Her lips half open, and her finger up, 

As though she said " Beware!" her vest of gold 

Broidered with flowers, and clasped from head to foot, 

An emerald-stone in every golden clasp ; 

And on her brow, fairer than alabaster, 

A coronet of pearls. But then her face — 

So lovely, yet so arch — so full of mirth — 

The overflowings of an innocent heart — 

It haunts me still, though many a year has fled, 

Like some wild melody ! 

Alone it hangs 
Over a mouldering heir-loom, its companion, 
An oaken chest, half eaten by the worm, 
But richly carved by Antony of Trent 
With Scripture stories from the Life of Christ ; 
A chest that came from Venice, and had held 
The ducal robes of some old ancestor. 
That by the way — it may be true or false — 
But don't forget the picture ; and thou wilt not 
When thou hast heard the tale they told me there. 

She was an only child ; from infancy 
The joy, the pride of an indulgent sire. 
Her mother dying of the gift she gave, 
That precious gift, what else remained to him ? 
The young Ginevra was his all in life, 
Still as she grew, for ever in his sight ; 
And in her fifteenth year became a bride, 
Marrying an only son, Francesco Doria, 
Her playmate from her birth, and her first love. 
Just as she looks there in her bridal dress, 
She was all gentleness, all gaiety, 
Her pranks the favourite theme of every tongue. 
But now the day was come — the day — the hour ; 
Now, frowning, smiling, for the hundredth time, 



SELECTIONS IN VERSE. 27 

The nurse, that ancient lady, preached decorum ; 

And in the lustre of her youth, she gave 

Her hand, with her heart in it, to Francesco. 

Great was the joy; but at the bridal feast 

When all sat down, the bride was wanting there. 

Nor was she to be found ! Her father cried 

" Tis but to make a trial of our love ! " 

And filled his glass to all ; but his hand shook, 

And soon from guest to guest the panic spread. 

'Twas but that instant she had left Francesco, 

Laughing and looking back and flying still, 

Her ivory tooth imprinted on his finger. 

But now, alas, she was not to be found ; 

Nor from that hour could any thing be guess'd, 

But that she was not ! 

Weary of his life, 
Francesco flew to Venice, and forthwith 
Flung it away in battle with the Turk. 
Orsini lived ; andlong might' st thou have seen 
An old man wandering as in quest of something, 
Something he could not find — he knew not what. 
When he was gone, the house remained awhile 
Silent and tenantless — then went to strangers. 

Full fifty years were past, and all forgot, 
When on an idle day, a day of search 
Mid the old lumber in the gallery, 
That mouldering chest was noticed ; and 'twas said 
By one as young, as thoughtless as Ginevra, 
" Why not remove it from its lurking-place }" 
'Twas done as soon as said ; but on the way 
It burst, it fell ; and lo, a skeleton, 
With here and there a pearl, an emerald stone, 
A golden clasp, clasping a shred of gold. 
All else had perished — save a nuptial ring, 
And a small seal, her mother's legacy, 
Engraven with a name, the name of both, 
" Ginevra." 

There then had she found a grave ! 
Within that chest had she concealed herself, 
Fluttering with joy, the happiest of the happy ; 
When a spring lock, that lay in ambush there, 
Fastened her down for ever ! Rogers. 



28 



THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 



HAMLET'S SOLILOQUY ON DEATH. 

To be — or not to be ? — that is the question. 

Whether 'tis nobler in the mind, to suffer 

The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, 

Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, 

And, by opposing, end them ? To die, — to sleep, — 

No more ; and, by a sleep, to say we end 

The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks 

That flesh is heir to, — 'tis a consummation 

Devoutly to be wished. To die, — to sleep ; — 

To sleep ! perchance to dream ; — ay, there's the rub ; 

For in that sleep of death, what dreams may come, 

When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, 

Must give us pause : There's the respect, 

That makes calamity of so long life : 

For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, 

The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, 

The pangs of despised love, the law's delay, 

The insolence of office, and the spurns 

That patient merit of the unworthy takes, 

When he himself might his quietus make 

With a bare bodkin ? Who would fardels bear, 

To grunt and sweat under a weary life, 

But that the dread of something after death, 

The undiscovered country, from whose bourn 

No traveller returns, puzzles the will ; 

And makes us rather bear those ills we have, 

Than fly to others that we know not of. 

Thus conscience does make cowards of us all ; 

And thus the native hue of resolution 

Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought ; 

And enterprises of great pith and moment, 

With this regard, their currents turn awry, 

And lose the name of action. Shakespere. 



HENRY V. TO HIS SOLDIERS AT THE 
BATTLE OF AGINCOURT. 

What's he who wishes for more men from England ? 
My cousin Westmoreland ? No, my fair cousin : 



SELECTIONS IN VERSE. 29 

If we are marked to die, we are enow 

To do our country loss ; and if to live, 

The fewer men, the greater share of honour. 

God's will ! I pray thee, wish not one man more ! 

By Jove, I am not covetous for gold ; 

Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost ; 

It yearns me not if men my garments wear ; 

Such outward things dwell not in my desires : 

But if it be a sin to covet honour, 

I am the most offending soul alive. 

No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England : 

I would not lose so great an honour 

As one man more methinks would share from me 

For the best hope I have. O do not wish one more ! 

Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host, 

That he who hath no stomach to this fight 

Let him depart ; his passport shall be made, 

And crowns for convoy put into his purse : 

We would not die in that man's company, 

That fears his fellowship to die with us. 

This day is called the feast of Crispian ; 
He that outlives this day, and comes safe home, 
Will stand a-tiptoe when this day is named, 
And rouse him at the name of Crispian : 
He that outlives this day, and sees old age, 
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours, 
And say, "To-morrow is St. Crispian!" 
Then will he strip his sleeves and show his scars. 
Old men forget ; yet shall not all forget, 
But they'll remember, with advantages, 
The feats they did that day : then shall our names, 
Familiar in their mouths as household words, — - 
Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter, 
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Glo'ster, 
Be in their flowing cups freshly remembered : 
This story shall the good man teach his sons ; 
And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by, 
From this day to the ending of the world, 
But we in it shall be remembered : 
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers ; 
For he this day that sheds his blood with me 



30 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Shall be my brother ; be he ne'er so vile, 

This day shall gentle his condition : — 

And gentlemen in England, now abed, 

Shall think themselves accurst they were not here, 

And hold their manhoods cheap, while any speak, 

That fought with us upon St. Crispian's day. Shakespere. 



JOAN OF ARC'S ADDRESS TO THE 
KING OF FRANCE. 

" King of France ! 
" At Chinon, when my gifted eye 
" Knew thee disguised, what inwardly the spirit 
" Prompted, I spake, arm'd with the sword of God, 
" To drive from Orleans far the English wolves, 
" And crown thee in the rescued walls of Rheims. 
" All is accomplish'd. I have here this day 
'' Fulfilled my mission, and anointed thee 
" Chief servant of the people. Of this charge, 
" Or well performed or wickedly, high heaven 
" Shall take account. If that thine heart be good, 
" I know no limit to the happiness 
" Thou may'st create. I do beseech thee. King ! " 
The maid exclaim'd, and fell upon the ground, 
And clasp'd his knees, " I do beseech thee, King, 
" By all the millions that depend on thee 
" For weal or woe, — consider what thou art, 
" And know thy duty. If thou dost oppress 
" Thy people, if to aggrandize thyself 
" Thou tear'st them from their homes, and sendest them 
" To slaughter, prodigal of misery ; 
" If, when the widow and the orphan groan 
" In want and wretchedness, thou turn est thee 
" To hear the music of the flatterer's tongue ; 
" If, when thou hear'st of thousands massacred, 
" Thou say'st ' I am a king, and fit it is 
" That these should perish for me' ; if thy realm 
" Should, through the counsels of thy government, 
" Be filled with woe, and in thy streets be he ard 
" The voice of mourning and the feeble cry 
" Of asking hunger ; if at such a time 



SELECTIONS IN VERSE. 31 

" Thou dost behold thy plenty-covered board, 

" And shroud thee in thy robes of royalty, 

" And say that all is well, — O gracious God ! - 

" Be merciful to such a monstrous man, 

" When the spirits of the murdered innocent 

" Cry at thy throne of justice. 

" King of France ! 
" Protect the lowly, feed the hungry ones, 
" And be the orphan's father; thus shalt thou 
" Become the representative of heaven, 
" And gratitude and love establish thus 
" Thy reign. Believe me, King, that hireling guards 
" Though fleshed in slaughter, would be weak to save 
" A tyrant on the blood-cemented throne 
" That totters underneath him." Southey. 



JOSEPHUS THE HISTORIAN'S ADDRESS 
TO HIS COUNTRYMEN, 

IMPLORING THEM TO DISCONTINUE THEIR RESISTANCE 
TO THE ROMAN ARMS. 

Ye see me rise, 

men of Israel, brethren, countrymen ! 

Even from the earth ye see me rise, where lone, 

And sorrowful, and fasting I have sat 

These three long days; and sackcloth on the limbs 

Which once were wont to wear a soldier's raiment, 

And ashes on the head which ye of old 

Did honour, when its helmed glories shone 

Before you in the paths of battle. Hear me, 

Ye that, as I, adore the law, the prophets ; 

And at the ineffable thrice- holiest name 

Bow down your awe- struck foreheads to the ground. 

1 am not here to tell you, men of Israel, 
That it is madness to contend with Rome: 
That it were wisdom to submit and follow 
The common fortunes of the universe ; 

For ye would answer, that 'tis glorious madness 
To stand alone amidst the enslaved world, 
Freedom's last desperate champions : ye would answer 
That the slave's wisdom to the free-born man 



32 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Is basest folly. O my countrymen ! 
Before no earthly king- do I command you 
To fall subservient, not all- conquering Csesar, 
But in a mightier name I summon you, — 
The King of kings. He, he is manifest 
In the dark visitation that is on you. 
'Tis he, whose loosed and raging ministers, — 
Wild war, gaunt famine, leprous pestilence, — 
But execute his delegated wrath. 
Yea, by the fulness of your crimes, 'tis He ! 
Alas ! shall I weep o'er thee, or go down 
And grovel in the dust, and hide myself 
From mine own shame ? O thou defiled Jerusalem ! 
That drinkest thine own blood as from a fountain : 
That hast piled up the fabric of thy guilt 
To such portentous height, that earth is darkened 
With its huge shadow — that dost boast the monuments 
Of murdered prophets, and dost make the robes 
Of God's high priest a title and a claim 
To bloodiest slaughter — thou that every day 
Dost trample down the thunder- given law, 
Even with the pride and joy of him that treads 
The purple vintage. And, O thou, our temple ! 
That wert of old the beauty of holiness, 
The chosen, unapproachable abode 
Of him which dwelt between the cherubim, 
Thou art a charnel-house, and sepulchre 
Of slaughtered men, a common butchery 
Of civil strife ; and hence proclaim I, brethren, 
It is the Lord who doth avenge his own ; 
The Lord, who gives you over to the wicked, 
That ye may perish by their wickedness. Milmat> 



LINES WRITTEN FOR RECITATION 

ON OCCASION OF THE DEATH OF THE 

DUKE OF WELLINGTON. 

The storm that swept over the nations had pass'd, 
And the thrones of the mighty that quail' d to the blast, 



SELECTIONS IN VERSE. 33 

Again, from the depths of their ruin, uprose 
In the sternness of power and gloomy repose ; 
O'er the land where the outcast, the weak, the opprest, 
From the Despot find refuge, from weariness rest, 
The one menacing cloud she had mark' d with dismay 
Had roll'd from her atmosphere slowly away ; 
When, from palace to cottage, from mountain to glen, 
From the desolate heath and the concourse of men, 
From her fields and the hives of her industry came 
A wail, that was burthen' d with Wellington's name ! 
Like a chill on the heart of the nation it fell, 
Or a boding of evil that none could foretell ; 
But in silence the tears of the people were shed, 
As onward and onward the wild rumour sped, 
And hush'd were the sounds of rejoicing and mirth, 
And its murmur was heard to the ends of the earth ! 

Hindostan ! crape thy banner, for cold on his bier 
Lies the warrior who crush'd in his headlong career 
The haughty Mahratta, and scatter' d the train 
Of his chivalry, never to rally again ! 
Lusitania, lament ! mourn, Iberia ! mourn ! 
Thy glories had faded, thy banner was torn, 
Thy vine-cover'd hills and thy valleys defaced, 
And thy cities destroy'd and thy country a waste. 
From the far western island the warrior appear' d, 
And aloft the red cross of his country uprear'd, 
Against numbers unnumber'd, a beacon to light 
Thy rude and undisciplin'd warriors in fight : 
That flag he bore onward through battle and storm, 
And wherever war stalk'd in its deadliest form, 
Ne'er again in the face of a foe to be furl'd 
Until back to his home the invader was hurl'd ! 

Tell it Rolica, tell it Vimiera, and thou, 
Placid Douro, where torn from the ravager's brow 
Was the wreath that had guerdon'd his triumph and toil 
Through massacre, bloodshed, and plunder, and spoil ; 
Talavera, Busaco, thy ridge drench'd in gore, 
Thy streets torn by battle, Fuentes d'Onor ! 
Thy terrible slaughter, Rodrigo, thy fosse 
Piled with victims, that bridged thy red breach, Badajoz ! 
c 5 



34 



THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 



Salamanca ! whose plains saw the confident host 

Half swept from the earth in the pride of their boast ! 

Vittoria, whose trophies still blazon the wall, 

In the gloom of the conqueror's desolate hall ! 

And that last fearful conflict convulsive, the throe 

Of an empire expiring, where foeman and foe 

Lay in lines as they fell, and while yet it had breath 

Thy suburbs, Toulouse, saw its struggles in death ! 

Aye ! and share in the sorrow, now foemen no more, 

Ye so often who met him in battle before ! 

As warrior meets warrior with musket and brand, 

He respected your laws and gave peace to your land : 

When the Prussian, all raging with vengeance and hate, 

Would have doom'd your fair city to Babylon's fate ! 

Would have sullied your glories, your trophies o'erthrown, 

In humanity's cause he stood bravely alone ; 

And alone, when they call'd for your emperor's blood, 

Indignant, their furious purpose withstood, 

And nobly o'ermaster'd their chiefs to forego 

The doom they had pass'd on his worthiest foe. 

But, alas ! when the tears of the nations are dry, 
And the pageant that wound to his tomb hath gone by, 
Shall the deeds that he did, and the laurels he won, 
And the counsels he gave be remember'd by none, 
With a grief more enduring, a pang more severe, 
Than convulsed his fair Queen as she bent o'er his bier, 
And felt, in her sorrow, the memories blend 
Of the soldier ! the statesman ! the mentor ! and friend ! 
And well may she treasure the memory deep 
In her heart, of the warrior who sleeps the long sleep ; 
Looming far o'er the distance dire omens arise, 
Of discord and danger to startle men's eyes; 
Dark spirits abroad sound the tocsin of strife, 
And with glory and vengeance all rumours are rife ; 
Where the demon of hate waves his fiery brand, 
The horizon glares wild of a neighbouring land, 
And replumed are the wings of the eagle that flew 
In dismay from the carnage of red Waterloo ! 

But profane not his spirit by doubt ! Not in vain 
Shall that terrible day be fought over again : 



SELECTIONS IN VERSE. 35 

If summon'd to battle once more by the Gaul, 

Ere the stern-hearted Saxon shall crouch to his thrall, 

Alone, unappall'd, as he dared him before, 

Will he roll back the war to his enemy's shore ; 

And his warriors shall emulate Wellington's fame, 

And thunder " Vse victis !" in Wellington's name. 

Christmas, 1852. R. E. Bowler. 



LOCHINVAR. 

O young Lochinvar is come out of the west ! 
Through all the wide Border his steed was the best ; 
And, save his good broad-sword, he weapon had none ; 
He rode all unarm'd, and he rode all alone ! 
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, 
There never was knight like the young Lochinvar ! 

He stay'd not for brake, and he stopp'd not for stone — 

He swam the Esk river where ford there was none — 

But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate, 

The bride had consented, the gallant came late ; 

For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war, 

Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar ! 

So boldly he enter'd the Netherby Hall, 

Among bridemen, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all ! 

Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword — 

For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word — 

" O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war? 

" Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar ?" 

" I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied : 
" Love swells like the Sol way, but ebbs like its tide ! 
" And now am I come, with this lost love of mine, 
" To tread but one measure, drink one cup of wine : 
" There be maidens in Scotland, more lovely by far, 
" That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar ! " 

The bride kiss'd the goblet ; the knight took it up, 
He quaff' d off the wine, and he threw down the cup ; 



36 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

She look'd down to blush, and she look'd up to sigh, — 
With a smile on her lip, and a tear in her eye. 
He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar, — 
" Now tread we a measure ! " said young Lochinvar. 

So stately his form, and so lovely her face, 

That never a hall such a galliard did grace ! 

While her mother did fret, and her father did fume, 

And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume, 

But the bride-maidens whisper'd, " 'Twere better by far 

" To have match'd our fair cousin with young Lochinvar !" 

One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, 
When they reach'd the hall-door, and the charger stood near; 
So light to the croup the fair lady he swung, 
So light to the saddle before her he sprung ! 
" She is won ! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur; 
" They'll have fleet steeds that follow ! " quoth young 
Lochinvar. 

There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the Netherby clan ; 

Fosters, Fen wicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran ; 

There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lea, 

But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see ! 

So daring in love, and so dauntless in war, 

Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar ? 

Scott. 



MAN'S THREE GUESTS. 

A knocking at the castle-gate, 

When the bloom was on the tree ; 
And the youthful master, all elate, 

Himself came forth to see. 
A jocund lady waited there, 
Gay was her robe, of colours rare, 
Her tresses bright to the zephyr stream'd, 
And her car on its silver axle gleam' d, 
Like the gorgeous barge of that queen of yore, 

Whose silken sail and flashing oar 

Sparkling Cydnus proudly bore. 



SELECTIONS IN VERSE. 37 

The youth, enraptured at her smile, 
And won by her enchanting wile 

And flatteries vain, 
Welcomed her in, with all her train, 
Placing her in the chiefest seat, 
While, as a vassal at her feet, 
He knelt, and paid her homage sweet. 
She deck'd his halls with garlands gay, 
Bidding the sprightly viol play, 

Till by her magic power 
Day turn'd to night, and night to day, 

For every fleeting hour 
Bow'd to Pleasure as its queen ; 
And so, that siren guest, of mirthful mien, 
Linger' d till the vernal ray, 
And summer's latest rose had sigh'd itself away. 

A knocking at the gate ! 
And the lordling of the hall, 
A strong and bearded man withal, 
Held parley at the threshold- stone 

In the pomp of his estate. 
And then the warder's horn was blown, 
The ponderous bolts drawn one by one, 

And slowly in, with sandals torn, 

Came a pilgrim, travel-worn. 

A burden at his back he bare, 

And coldly said, " My name is Care ! " 
Plodding and weary years he brought, 
And a pillow worn with ceaseless thought ; 

And bade his votary ask of Fame, 

Or wealth, or wild Ambition's claim, 
Payment for the toil he taught. 
But dark with dregs was the cup he quaff' d, 

And ' mid his harvest, proud 
The mocking tare look'd up and laugh'd, 

Till his haughty heart was bow'd, 
And wrinkles on his forehead hung, and o'er his path a cloud. 

Again, a knocking at the gate, 
At the wintry eventide, 



38 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

And querulous was the voice that cried, 

" Who cometh here so late ? " 
" Ho ! rouse the sentinel from his sleep, 
Strict guard at every loop-hole keep !" 
And " Man the towers I" he would have said, 
But alas ! his early friends were dead, 
And his eagle glance was awed. 
And a frost, that never thaw'd, 
Had settled on his head. 
But that thundering at the gate, 
From morn till midnight late, 

Knew no rest ; 
And a hoding tone of fate. 
Like an owlet's cry of hate, 

Chill' d his breast. 
Yet he raised the palsied hand, 
And, eager, gave command, 
To repel the threatening guest ; 
So the Esculapian band, 
In their armour old and tried, 
Were summon' d to his side ; 
And the watchful nurses came, 
Whose lamp, like vestal flame, 

Never died. 
But the tottering bulwarks their trust betray'd, 
And the old man groan'd as a breach was made; 
Then through the chasm a skeleton foot 

Forced its way, 
And a fleshless hand to a shaft was put, 

And he was clay. Sigourney, 



MARCO BOZZARIS. 

At midnight, in his guarded tent, 

The Turk was dreaming of the hour 

When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent, 

Should tremble at his power ; 

In dreams, thro' camp and court he bore 

The trophies of a conqueror ; 

In dreams his song of triumph heard, 



SELECTIONS IN VERSE. 39 

Then wore that monarch's signet ring, 
Then press'd that monarch's throne — a King, 
As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing 
As Eden's garden bird. 

At midnight, in the forest shades 

Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band, 

True as the steel of their tried blades : 

Heroes in heart and hand. 

There had the Persian's thousands stood, 

There had the glad earth drunk their blood 

On old Platsea's day ; 

And now these breathed that haunted air, 

The sons of sires who conquer'd there, 

"With arm to strike, and soul to dare, 

As quick, as far as they. 

An hour pass'd on — the Turk awoke ; 
That bright dream was his last ; 
He woke — to hear his sentries shriek, 
" To arms ! they come ! the Greek ! the Greek !" 
He woke — to die 'midst flame and smoke, 
And shout, and groan, and sabre stroke ; 
And death- shots falling thick and fast, 
Like forest pines before the blast, 
Or lightnings from the mountain cloud ; 
And heard with voice as trumpet loud, 
Bozzaris cheer his band ; — 
" Strike — till the last arm'd foe expires, 
" Strike — for your altars and your fires, 
" Strike — for the green graves of your sires, 
" God — and your native land !" 

They fought like brave men, long and well, 
They piled that ground with Moslem slain ; 
They conquer'd — but Bozzaris fell 
Bleeding at every vein. 
His few surviving comrades saw 
His smile, when rang their proud hurrah, 
And the red field was won ; 
Then saw in death his eyelids close, 
Calmly as to a night's repose, 
Like flowers at set of sun. 



40 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Come to the bridal-chamber, Death ! 
Come to the mother's, when she feels 
For the first time her first born's breath ; 
Come when the blessed seals 
Which close the pestilence are broke, 
And crowded cities wail its stroke ; 
Come in Consumption's ghastly form, 
The Earthquake's shock, the Ocean's storm ; 
Come when the heart beats high and warm, 
With banquet- song, and dance, and wine, 
And thou art terrible ; the tear, 
The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier, 
And all we know, or dream, or fear 
Of agony, are thine. 

But to the hero — when his sword 
Has won the battle for the free, 
Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word, 
And in its hollow tones are heard, 
The thanks of millions yet to be. 
Come, when his task of fame is wrought ; 
Come, with the laurel-leaf blood-bought ; 
Come in the crowning hour ; and then 
Thy sunken eyes' unearthly light 
To him is welcome as the sight 
Of sky and stars to prison'd men ; 
Thy grasp is welcome as the hand 
Of brother in a foreign land ; 
Thy summons welcome as the cry 
Which told the Indian isles were nigh 
To the world- seeking Genoese, 
When the land wind, from woods of palm, 
And orange- groves, and fields of balm, 
Blew o'er the Haytian seas. 

Bozzaris ! with the storied brave, 
Greece nurtured in her glory's time, 
Rest thee ! there is no prouder grave, 
Even in her own proud clime. 
She wore no funeral weeds for thee, 
Nor bade the dark hearse wave its plume, 
Like torn branch from death's leafless tree 



SELECTIONS IN VERSE. 41 

In sorrow's pomp and pageantry, 

The heartless luxury of the tomb ; 

But she remembers thee as one 

Long loved, and for a season gone ; 

For thee her poet's lyre is wreathed, 

Her marble wrought, her music breathed ; 

For thee she rings the birthday bells ; 

Of thee her babe's first lisping tells ; 

For thine her evening prayer is said 

At palace couch, and cottage bed. 

Her soldier closing with the foe, 

Gives for thy sake a deadlier blow ; 

His plighted maiden when she fears 

For him the joy of her young years, 

Thinks of thy fate and checks her tears ; 

And she, the mother of thy boys, 

Though in her eye and faded cheek 

Is read the grief she will not speak, 

The memory of her buried joys, 

And even she who gave thee birth, 

Will, by their pilgrim -circled hearth, 

Talk of thy doom, without a sigh ; 

For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's ; 

One of the few, the immortal names, 

That were not born to die. Halleck. 



MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS. 
I look'd far back into other years, and lo ! in bright array, 
I saw, as in a dream, the forms of ages pass'd away. 

It was a stately convent, with its old and lofty walls, 
And gardens, with their broad green walks, where soft the 
footstep falls ; 

♦P 5jC jp 5|C JjC 

And there five noble maidens sat, beneath the orchard trees, 

In that first budding spring of youth, when all its pros- 
pects please ; 

And little reck'd they, when they sang, or knelt at vesper 
prayers, 

That Scotland knew no prouder names — held none more 
dear than theirs ; — 



42 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

And little even the loveliest thought, before the Virgin's 

shrine, 
Of royal blood, and high descent from the ancient Stuart 

line ; 
Calmly her happy days flew on, uncounted in their flight, 
And, as they flew, they left behind a long- continuing light. 

The scene was changed. It was the court — the gay court, 

of Bourbon — 
And 'neath a thousand silver lamps, a thousand courtiers 

throng ; 
And proudly kindles Henry's eye — well pleased, I ween, to 

see 

The land assemble all its wealth of grace and chivalry: — 

***** 

And there walks she of Medicis — that proud Italian line, 
The mother of a race of kings — the haughty Catherine! 
The forms that follow in her train, a glorious sunshine make, 
A milky way of stars that grace a comet's glittering wake ; 
But fairer far than all the rest, who bask on fortune's tide, 
Effulgent in the light of youth, is she, the new-made bride ! 

•I* 5JC 5|C ?j£ 5|C 

Ah ! who shall blame, if scarce that day, through all its 

brilliant hours ? 
She thought of that quiet convent's calm, its sunshine, and 

its flowers ! 

The scene was changed. It was a bark that slowly held 

its way, 
And o'er its lee the coast of France in the light of evening 

%; 

And on its deck a lady sat, who gazed with tearful eyes 

Upon the fast-receding hills, that dim and distant rise. 

***** 

No marvel that the lady wept — it was the land of France — 
The chosen home of chivalry — the garden of romance ! 
The past was bright, like those dear hills so far behind her 

bark ; 
The future, like the gathering night, w T as ominous and dark ! 
One gaze again — one long, last gaze — " Adieu, fair France, 

to thee!" 
The breeze comes forth — she is alone on the unconscious sea. 



SELECTIONS IN VERSE. 43 

The scene was changed. It was an eve of raw and surly 

mood, 
And in a turret-chamber high of ancient Holyrood 
Sat Mary, listening to the rain, and sighing with the winds, 
That seern'd to suit the stormy state of men's uncertain 

minds. 
The touch of care had blanch'd her cheek — her smile was 

sadder now, 
The weight of royalty had press'd too heavy on her brow ; 
And traitors to her councils came, and rebels to the field ; 
The Stuart sceptre well she sway'd, but the sword she 

could not wield ; 
She thought of all her blighted hopes — the dreams of 

youth's brief day — 
And summon'd Rizzio with his lute, and bade the minstrel 

play 
The songs she loved in early years — the songs of gay 

Navarre, 
The songs perchance that erst were sung by gallant 

Chatelar ; 
They half beguiled her of her cares, they soothed her into 

smiles, 
They won her thoughts from bigot zeal, and fierce domestic 

broils : — 
But hark ! the tramp of armed men ! the Douglas' battle 

cry! 
They come — they come — and lo ! the scowl of Ruthven's 

hollow eye ! 
And swords are drawn, and daggers gleam, and tears and 

words are vain, 
The ruffian steel is in his heart — the faithful Rizzio 's slain ! 
Then Mary Stuart brush' d aside the tears that trickling fell : 
"Now for my fathers arm!" she said; "my woman's 

heart, farewell !" 

The scene was changed. It was a lake, with one small 

lonely isle. 
And there, within the prison-walls of its baronial pile, 
Stern men stood menacing their queen, till she should 

stoop to sign 
The traitorous scroll that snatch' d the crown from her 

ancestral line : — 



44 



THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 



" My lords, my lords !" the captive said, " were I but once 

more free, 
" With ten good knights on yonder shore, to aid my cause 

and me, 
" That parchment would I scatter wide to every breeze 

that blows, 
" And once more reign a Stuart queen o'er my remorseless 

foes ! " 
A red spot burn'd upon her cheek — stream'd her rich 

tresses down, 
She wrote the words — she stood erect — a queen without 

a crown ! 

The scene was changed. A royal host a royal banner bore, 

And the faithful of the land stood round their smiling 
queen once more ; — 

She stayed her steed upon a hill, she saw them marching by, 

She heard their shouts, she read success in every flashing 
eye;— 

The tumult of the strife begins — it roars — it dies away ; 

And Mary's troops and banners now, and courtiers — where 
are they ? 

Scatter'd and strewn, and flying far, defenceless and un- 
done — 

O God ! to see what she has lost, and think what guilt has 
won ! 

Away ! away ! thy gallant steed must act no laggard's part ; 

Yet vain his speed, for thou dost bear the arrow in thy 
heart. 

The scene was changed. Beside the block a sullen heads- 
man stood, 

And gleam'd the broad axe in his hand, that soon must 
drip with blood — 

With slow and steady step there came a lady through the 
hall, 

And breathless silence chain'd the lips, and touch'd the 
hearts of all ; 

Rich were the sable robes she wore — her white veil round 
her fell — 

And from her neck there hung the cross — the cross she 
loved so well ! 



SELECTIONS IN VERSE. 45 

I knew that queenly form again, though blighted was its 

bloom — 
I saw that grief had deck'd it out — an offering for the tomb ! 
I knew the eye, though faint its light, that once so brightly 

shone — 
I knew the voice, though feeble now, that thrill'd with 

every tone — 
I knew the ringlets, almost grey, once threads of living 

gold — 
I knew that bounding grace of step — that symmetry of 

mould ! 
Even now I see her far away, in that calm convent aisle, 
I hear her chant her vesper-hymn, I mark her holy smile — 
Even now I see her bursting forth upon her bridal morn, 
A new star in the firmament, to light and glory born ! 
Alas ! the change ! she placed her foot upon a triple throne, 
And on the scaffold now she stands — beside the block 

alone ! 
The little dog that licks her hand, the last of all the crowd 
Who sunn'd themselves beneath her glanCe, and round her 

footsteps bow'd ! 
Her neck is bared — the blow is struck — the soul has pass'd 

away; 
The bright — the beautiful — is now a bleeding piece of clay ! 
The dog is moaning piteously ; and, as it gurgles o'er, 
Laps the warm blood that trickling runs unheeded to the 

floor! 
The blood of beauty, wealth, and power — the heart-blood 

of a queen — 
The noblest of the Stuart race — the fairest earth hath 

seen — 
Lapp'd by a dog ! Go, think of it, in silence and alone • 
Then weigh against a grain of sand, the glories of a throne. 
H. G. Bell. 

MARY, THE MAID OF THE INN. 

Who is she, the poor maniac, whose wildly- fix'd eyes 

Seem a heart overcharged to express ? 
She weeps not, yet often and deeply she sighs ; 
She never complains, but her silence implies 

The composure of settled distress. 



46 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

No aid, no compassion the maniac will seek, 

Cold and hunger awake not her care ; 
Through her rags do the winds of the winter blow bleak 
On her poor wither'd bosom, half bare, and her cheek 
Has the deadly pale hue of despair. 

Yet cheerful and happy (nor distant the day,) 

Poor Mary the maniac hath been ; 
The traveller remembers, who journey'd this way, 
No damsel so lovely, no damsel so gay, 

As Mary, the maid of the inn. 

Her cheerful address fill'd the guests with delight, 
As she welcomed them in with a smile ; 

Her heart was a stranger to childish affright ; 

And Mary would walk by the Abbey at night, 
When the wind whistled down the dark aisle. 

She loved, and young Richard had settled the day, 

And she hoped to be happy for life ; 
But Richard was idle and worthless ; and they 
Who knew him would pity poor Mary, and say 

That she was too good for his wife. 

'Twas in autumn, and stormy and dark was the night, 

And fast were the windows and door ; 
Two guests sat enjoying the fire that burnt bright, 
And smoking in silence, with tranquil delight, 
They listen'd to hear the wind roar. 

" 'Tis pleasant," cried one, " seated by the fire-side, 

" To hear the wind whistle without." 
" What a night for the abbey !" his comrade replied ; 
" Methinks a man's courage would now be well tried, 

"Who should wander the ruins about. 

" I myself, like a school-boy, should tremble to hear 

"The hoarse ivy shake over my head; 
" And could fancy I saw, half persuaded by fear, 
" Some ugly old abbot's grim spirit appear, 
" For this wind might awaken the dead." 



SELECTIONS IN VERSE. 



47 



" I'll wager a dinner," the other one cried, 

" That Mary would venture there now." 
" Then wager, and lose," with a sneer he replied, 
" I'll warrant she'd fancy a ghost by her side, 

" And faint if she saw a white cow." 

u Will Mary this charge on her courage allow ?" 

His companion exclaimed with a smile ; 
" I shall win, for I know she will venture there now, 
" And earn a new bonnet by bringing a bough 

" From the alder that grows in the aisle." 

With fearless good humour did Mary comply, 

And her way to the abbey she bent ; 
The night it was gloomy, the wind it was high, 
And, as hollowly howling it swept through the sky, 

She shiver' d with cold as she went. 

O'er the path, so well known, still proceeded the maid, 

Where the abbey rose dim on the sight , 
Through the gateway she enter'd — she felt not afraid; 
Yet the ruins were lonely and wild, and their shade 

Seemed to deepen the gloom of the night. 

All around her was silent, save when the rude blast 

Howled dismally round the old pile ; 
Over weed-cover' d fragments still fearless she pass'd, 
And arrived at the innermost ruin at last, 

Where the alder-tree grew in the aisle. 

Well pleased did she reach it, and quickly drew near, 

And hastily gather' d the bough ; 
When the sound of a voice seem'd to rise on her ear — 
She paused, and she listen'd, all eager to hear, 

And her heart panted fearfully now. 

The wind blew — the hoarse ivy shook over her head- 
She listen'd — nought else could she hear ; 
The wind ceased, her heart sunk in her bosom with dread, 
For she heard in the ruins distinctly the tread 
Of footsteps approaching her near. 



48 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Behind a wide column, half breathless with fear, 

She crept to conceal herself there ; 
That instant the moon o'er a dark cloud shone clear, 
And she saw in the moonlight two ruffians appear, 

And between them a corpse did they bear. 

Then Mary could feel her heart's blood curdle cold ; 

Again the rough wind hurried by — 
It blew off the hat of the one; and, behold ! 
Even close to the feet of poor Mary it roll'd; 

She fell — and expected to die. 

" Plague the hat!" he exclaims. "Nay, come on and 
fast hide 

"The dead body," his comrade replies. 
She beholds them in safety pass on by her side ; 
She seizes the hat, fear her courage supplied, 

And fast through the abbey she flies. 

She ran with wild speed, she rush'd in at the door, 

She cast her eyes horribly round ; 
Her limbs could support their faint burden no more, 
But, exhausted and breathless, she sunk on the floor, 

Unable to utter a sound. 

Ere yet her pale lips could the story impart, 

For a moment the hat met her view ; 
Her eyes from that object convulsively start, 
For, O God ! what cold horror thrill' d through her heart, 

When the name of her Richard she knew. 

Where the old abbey stands, on the common hard by, 

His gibbet is now to be seen ; 
Not far from the road it engages the eye, 
The traveller beholds it, and thinks, with a sigh, 

Of poor Mary, the maid of the inn. 

Southey-, 

MESSIAH— A SACRED ECLOGUE. 

Ye nymphs of Solyma ! begin the song: 
To heavenly themes sublimer strains belong. 



SELECTIONS IN VERSE. 49 

The mossy fountains, and the sylvan shades, 
The dreams of Pindus, and the Aonian maids, 
Delight no more. O thou my voice inspire, 
Who touch' d Isaiah's hallowed lips with fire ! 

Rapt into future times, the bard begun : 
A virgin shall conceive, a virgin bear a son ! 
From Jesse's root behold a Branch arise, 
Whose sacred flower with fragrance fills the skies. 
The etherial Spirit o'er its leaves shall move, 
And on its top descends the mystic Dove. 
Ye heavens ! from high the dewy nectar pour, 
And in soft silence shed the kindly shower. 
The sick and weak the healing plant shall aid, 
From storms a shelter, and from heat a shade ; 
All crimes shall cease, and ancient fraud shall fail ; 
Returning justice lift aloft her scale ; 
Peace o'er the world her olive wand extend, 
And white-robed Innocence from heaven descend. 
Swift fly the years, and rise th' expected morn ! 
Oh spring to light, auspicious babe, be born ! 
See, nature hastes her earliest wreaths to bring, 
With all the incense of the breathing spring ; 
See lofty Lebanon his head advance, 
See nodding forests on the mountains dance ; 
See spicy clouds from lowly Sharon rise, 
And Carmel's flowery top perfumes the skies. 
Hark ! a glad voice the lonely desert cheers ; 
Prepare the way ! a God, a God appears ! 
A God, a God ! the vocal hills reply ; 
The rocks proclaim th' approaching Deity. 
So, earth receives him from the bending skies ! 
Sink down, ye mountains, and, ye valleys, rise ! 
With heads declined, ye cedars, homage pay ! 
Be smooth, ye rocks ; ye rapid floods give way ! 
The Saviour comes ! by ancient bards foretold : 
Hear him, ye deaf, and all ye blind, behold ! 
He from thick films shall purge the visual ray, 
And on the sightless eye-ball pour the day : 
'Tis he th' obstructed paths of sound shall clear, 
And bid new music charm th' unfolding ear : 



50 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

The dumb shall sing, the lame his crutch forego, 

And leap exulting like the bounding roe. 

No sigh, no murmur the wide world shall hear ; 

From ev'ry face he wipes off ev'ry tear. 

In adamantine chains shall Death be bound, 

And hell's grim tyrant feel th' eternal wound. 

As the good shepherd tends his fleecy care, 

Seeks freshest pasture and the purest air, 

Explores the lost, the wand'ring sheep directs, 

By day o'ersees them, and by night protects ; 

The tender lambs he raises in his arms, 

Feeds from his hand, and in his bosom warms. 

Thus shall mankind his guardian care engage, 

The promised Father of the future age. 

No more shall nation against nation rise, 

Nor ardent warriors meet with hateful eyes, 

Nor fields with gleaming steel be covered o'er, 

The brazen trumpets kindle rage no more ; 

But useless lances into scythes shall bend, 

And the broad faulchion in a ploughshare end. 

The lambs with wolves shall graze the verdant mead, 

And boys in flow'ry bands the tiger lead ! 

The steer and lion at one crib shall meet, 

And harmless serpents lick the pilgrim's feet. 

The smiling infant in his hand shall take 

The crested basilisk and speckled snake, 

Pleased, the green lustre of the scales survey, 

And with their forky tongues shall innocently play. 

Rise, crowned with light, imperial Salem, rise ! 

Exalt thy towery head, and lift thine eyes ! 

See, a long race thy spacious courts adorn ; 

See, future sons and daughters yet unborn, 

In crowding ranks on ev'ry side arise, 

Demanding life, impatient for the skies ! 

No more the rising sun shall gild the morn, 

Nor evening Cynthia fill her silver horn ; 

But lost, dissolved in thy superior rays, 

One tide of glory, one unclouded blaze 

O'erflow thy courts : the Light himself shall shine 

Revealed, and God's eternal day be thine. 



SELECTIONS IN VERSE. 51 

The seas shall waste, the skies in smoke decay, 
Rocks fall to dust, and mountains melt away ; 
But fixed his words, his saving power remains: 
Thy realm for ever lasts, thine own Messiah reigns. 

Pope. 



MONODY ON THE DEATH OF THE RIGHT 
HONOURABLE R. B. SHERIDAN. 

When the last sunshine of expiring day 

In summer's twilight weeps itself away, 

Who hath not felt the softness of the hour 

Sink on the heart, as dew along the flower ? 

'Tis not harsh sorrow — but a tenderer woe, 

Nameless, but dear to gentle hearts below, 

Felt without bitterness — but full and clear, 

A sweet dejection — a transparent tear, 

Unmixed with worldly grief or selfish stain, 

Shed without shame — and secret without pain. 

Even as the tenderness that hour instils 

When summer's day declines along the hills, 

So feels the fulness of our heart and eyes 

When all of Genius which can perish dies. 

Almighty spirit is eclipsed — a power 

Hath passed from day to darkness — to whose hour 

Of light no likeness is bequeathed — no name, 

Focus at once of all the rays of Fame ! 

The flash of Wit — the bright Intelligence — 

The beam of Song — the blaze of Eloquence, 

Set with their sun — but still have left behind 

The enduring produce of immortal Mind ; 

Fruits of a genial morn, and glorious noon, 

A deathless part of him who died too soon. 

But small that portion of the wondrous whole, 

These sparkling segments of that circling soul, 

Which all embraced and lightened over all, 

To cheer — to pierce — to please — or to appal : 

From the charmed council to the festive board, 

Of human feelings the unbounded lord ; 

In whose acclaim the loftiest voices vied, 

The praised — the proud — who made his praise their pride, 



52 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

When the loud cry of trampled Hindustan 

Arose to Heaven in her appeal from man, 

His was the thunder — his the avenging rod, 

The wrath — the delegated voice of God ! 

Which shook the nations through his lips, and blazed, 

Till vanquished senates trembled as they praised. 

But should there be to whom the fatal blight 

Of failing Wisdom yields a base delight, 

Men who exult when minds of heavenly tone, 

Jar in the music which was born their own, 

Still let them pause — Ah ! little do they know 

That what to them seemed vice might be but woe. 

Hard is his fate on whom the public gaze, 

Is fixed for ever to detract or praise ; 

Repose denies her requiem to his name, 

And Folly loves the martyrdom of Fame. 

The secret enemy whose sleepless eye 

Stands sentinel — accuser —judge and spy — 

The foe — the fool — the jealous — and the vain, 

The envious, who but breathe in others' pain, 

Behold the host ! delighting to deprave, 

Who track the steps of glory to the grave; 

Watch every fault that daring Genius owes, 

Half to the ardour whieh its birth bestows, 

Distort the truth, accumulate the lie, 

And pile the pyramid of Calumny ! 

These are his portion — but if joined to these 

Gaunt Poverty should league with deep Disease ; 

If the high spirit must forget to soar, 

And stoop to strive with Misery at the door, 

To soothe Indignity — and face to face 

Meet sordid Rage — and wrestle with Disgrace ; 

To find in Hope but the renewed caress, 

The serpent-fold of further Faithlessness : — 

If such may be the ills which men assail, 

What marvel if at last the mightiest fail? 

Breasts to whom all the strength of feeling given 

Bear hearts electric, — charged with fire from Heaven, 

Black with the rude collision, inly torn, 

By clouds surrounded, and on whirlwinds borne, 

Driven o'er the lowering Atmosphere that nurst 

Thoughts which have turned to thunder — scorch, and burst. 



SELECTIONS IN VERSE. 53 

Bat far from us and from our mimic scene 
Such things should be — if such have ever been ; 
Ours be the gentler wish, the kinder task, 
To give the tribute Glory need not ask, 
To mourn the vanished beam — and add our mite 
Of praise in payment of a long delight. 
Ye Orators ! whom yet our councils yield, 
Mourn for the veteran Hero of your field! 
The worthy rival of the wondrous Three ! 
Whose words were sparks of Immortality ! 
Ye bards ! to whom the drama's muse is dear, 
He was your master — emulate him here ! 
Ye men of wit and social eloquence ! 
He was your brother — bear his ashes hence ! 
While powers of mind almost of boundless range, 
Complete in kind — as various in their change, 
While Eloquence — Wit — Poesy — and Mirth, 
That humbler harmonist of care on earth, 
Survive within our souls — while lives our sense 
Of pride in Merit's proud pre-eminence, 
Long shall we seek his likeness — long in vain, 
And turn to all of him which may remain, 
Sighing that Nature formed but one such man, 
And broke the die — in moulding Sheridan ! 

Byron. 



ODE TO WINTER. 

When first the fiery -mantled sun 
His heavenly race began to run, 
Round the earth and ocean blue, 
His children four, the Seasons, flew. 
First, in green apparel dancing, 

The young Spring smiled with angel grace 
Rosy Summer next advancing, 

Rush'd into her sire's embrace ; 
Her bright-hair'd sire who bade her keep 

For ever nearest to his smiles, 
On Calpe's olive-shaded steep, 

Or India's citron- cover' d isles : 



54 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

More remote and buxom-brown, 

The Queen of vintage bow'd before his throne ; 
A rich pomegranate gemm'd her crown, 

A ripe sheaf bound her zone. 

But howling Winter fled afar, 
To hills that prop the polar star, 
And loves on deer-borne car to ride 
With barren darkness at his side, 
Round the shore where loud Lofoden 

Whirls to death the roaring whale ; 
Round the hall where Runic Odin 

Howls his war-song to the gale ; 
Save when adown the ravaged globe, 

He travels on his native storm, 
Deflowering Nature's grassy robe, 

And trampling on her faded form — 
Till Light's returning lord assume 

The shaft that drives him to his polar field, 
Of power to pierce his raven plume 

And crystal-cover' d shield. 
O sire of storms ! whose savage ear 
The Lapland drum delights to hear, 
When Frenzy with her blood- shot eye 
Implores thy dreadful deity, 
Archangel ! power of desolation ! 

Fast descending as thou art, 
Say, hath mortal invocation 

Spells to touch thy stony heart ? 
Then, sullen Winter, hear my prayer, 
And gently rule the ruin'd year ; 
Nor chill the wanderer's bosom bare, 
Nor freeze the wretch's falling tear ; 
To shuddering Want's unmantled bed 
Thy horror-breathing agues cease to lead, 
And gently on the orphan head 
Of innocenee descend. 

But chiefly spare, O king of clouds, 
The sailor on his airy shrouds, 
When wrecks and beacons strew the steep, 
And spectres walk along the deep ; 



SELECTIONS IN VERSE. 55 

Milder yet thy snowy breezes 

Pour on yonder tented shores, 
Where the Rhine's broad billow freezes, 

Or the dark brown Danube roars. 
O winds of Winter ! list ye there 

To many a deep and dying groan ; 
Or start, ye demons of the midnight air, 

At shrieks and thunders louder than your own. 
Alas ! ev'n your unhallow'd breath 

May spare the victim fallen low ; 
But man will ask no truce to death, — 

No bounds to human woe. 

Campbell. 



THE BARD, 

" Ruin seize thee, ruthless king ! 

u Confusion on thy banners wait; 

" Though fann'd by conquest's crimson wing, 

" They mock the air with idle state ! 

" Helm, nor hauberk's twisted mail, 

" Nor even thy virtues, tyrant, shall avail 

" To save thy secret soul from nightly fears — 

' ( From Cambria's curse — from Cambria's tears!" 

Such were the sounds that o'er the crested pride 

Of the first Edward scattered wild dismay, 

As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side 

He wound, with toilsome march, his long array. 

Stout Glo'ster stood aghast in speechless trance. 

" To arms!" cried Mortimer, and couch'd his quiv 'ring lance. 

On a rock, whose haughty brow 

Frowns o'er old Conway's foamy flood, 

Rob'd in the sable garb of woe, 

With haggard eyes, the poet stood ; 

(Loose his beard and hoary hair 

Stream'd, like a meteor, to the troubled air); 

And with a master's hand, and prophet's fire, 

Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre : — 

" Hark, how each giant-oak, and desert cave, 

" Sighs to the torrent's awful voice beneath ! 



56 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

" O'er thee, O king ! their hundred arms they wave ; 
" Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe: 
" Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day, 
" To high-born Hoel's harp, or soft Llewellyn's lay. 

" Cold is Cadwalla's tongue, 

" That hush'd the stormy main : 

" Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy oed : 

" Mountains, ye mourn in vain 

" Modred, whose magic song 

" Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topt head. 

" On dreary Arvon's shore they lie, 

" Smear'd with gore, and ghastly pale. 

" Far, far aloof, the affrighted ravens sail ; 

" The famish'd eagle screams, and passes by. 

" Dear lost companions of my tuneful art, — 

" Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes — 

u Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart : 

" Ye died amidst your dying country's cries. 

l< No more I weep. They do not sleep ! 

"On yonder cliffs, a grisly band, 

*' I see them sit — they linger yet, 

" Avengers of their native land ! 

" With me in dreadful harmony they join, 

" And weave, with bloody hands, the tissue of thy line. 

" Weave the warp, and weave the woof — 

" The winding-sheet of Edward's race; 

" Give ample room, and verge enough, 

" The characters of hell to trace ! 

" Mark the year, and mark the night, 

lt When Severn shall re-echo with affright 

" The shrieks of death through Berkeley's roof that ring, 

" Shrieks of an agonising king ! 

" She wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs, 

tl That tear'st the bowels of thy mangled mate, 

il From thee be borne, who o'er thy country hangs 

cl The scourge of heaven. What terrors round him wait ! 

" Amazement in his van, with flight combined, 

" And sorrow's faded form, and solitude behind. 



SELECTIONS IN VERSE. 57 

■' Mighty victor ! mighty lord ! 

*' Low on his funeral couch he lies ; 

". No pitying heart, no eye, afford 

" A tear to grace his obsequies. 

" Is the sable warrior fled ? 

" Thy son is gone : he rests among the dead. 

" The swarm that in thy noon-tide beam were born — 

" Gone to salute the rising morn. 

" Fair laughs the morn, and soft the zephyr blows, 

" While, proudly riding o'er the azure realm, 

" In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes ; 

" Youth on the prow, and pleasure at the helm ; 

" Regardless of the sweeping whirlwind's sway, 

" That, hush'din grim repose, expects his evening prey. 

" Fill high the sparkling bowl ; 

" The rich repast prepare : 

" Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast: 

" Close by the regal chair, 

" Fell thirst and famine scowl 

" A baleful smile upon their baffled guest! 

" Heard ye the din of battle bray, 

" Lance to lance, and horse to horse ? 

•' Long years of havoc urge their destin'd course, 

tl And through the kindred squadrons mow their way. 

•' Ye towers of Julius — London's lasting shame, 

tl With many a foul and midnight murder fed, 

" Revere his consort's faith, his father's fame, 

" And spare the meek usurper's holy head ! 

" Above, below, the rose of snow, 

" Twin'd with her blushing foe we spread ; 

tl The bristled boar, in infant gore, 

" Wallows beneath the thorny shade. 

" Now, brothers, bending o'er th' accursed loom, 

" Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom ! 

" Edward, lo ! to sudden fate 
" (Weave we the woof. The thread is spun). 
" Half of thy heart we consecrate. 
" (The web is wove — the work is done). 
d 5 



58 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

" Stay, oh stay 1 nor thus forlorn 

" Leave me imbless'd, unpity'd, here to mourn ! 

lt In yon bright tract, that fires the western skies 

" They melt — they vanish from my eyes. 

" But oh ! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height, 

" Descending slow, their glittering skirts unroll ! 

" Visions of glory ! spare my aching sight ! 

" Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul ! 

" No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail : 

" All hail, ye genuine kings ! Britannia's issue hail ! 

" Girt with many a baron bold, 

" Sublime, their starry fronts they rear ; 

" And gorgeous dames, and statesmen old, 

" In bearded majesty appear : 

" In the midst, a form divine ! 

" Her eye proclaims her of the Briton line : 

" Her lion-port, her awe -commanding face, 

" Attemper'd sweet to virgin grace. 

" What strains symphonious tremble in the air ! 

" What strains of vocal transport round her play ! 

" Hear from the grave, great Taliessin, hear, 

" They breathe a soul to animate thy clay. 

" Bright Rapture calls, and, soaring as she sings, 

'* Waves in the eye of heav'n her many-colour'd wings. 

" The verse adorn again 

" Fierce War, and faithful Love, 

" And Truth severe, by fairy fiction drest: 

" In buskin'd measures move 

" Pale Grief and pleasing Pain, 

" With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast. 

" A voice, as of the cherub-choir, 

" Gales from blooming Eden bear; 

" And distant warblings lessen on my ear, 

" That lost in long futurity expire. 

" Fond, impious man, think' st thou yon sanguine cloud, 

" Raised by thy breath, has quench'd the orb of day ? 

" To-morrow he repairs the golden flood, 

" And warms the nations with redoubled ray. 



SELECTIONS IN VERSE. 59 

" Enough for me ; with joy I see 

* * The different doom our fates assign. 

'• Be thine despair and sceptred care : 

** To triumph, and to die are mine I" 

He spoke ; and headlong, from the mountain's height, 

Deep in the roaring tide he plunged to endless night. 

Gray. 

THE BATTLE-FIELD. 

Once this soft turf, this rivulet's sands, 

Were trampled by a hurrying crowd, 
And fiery hearts, and armed hands 

Encounter'd in the battle-cloud. 

And never shall the land forget 

How gush'd the life-blood of her brave ; 
Gush'd warm with hope and courage yet, 

Upon the soil they fought to save. 
• 
Now, all is calm, and fresh, and still, 

Alone the chirp of flitting bird, 
And talk of children on the hill, 

And bell of wandering kine are heard. 

No solemn host goes trailing by 

The black-mouth'd gun and staggering wain ; 
Men start not at the battle-cry ; 

O be it never heard again ! 



Soon rested those who fought ; but thou 
Who minglest in the harder strife, 

For truths which men receive not now, 
Thy warfare only ends with life. 

A friendless warfare ! lingering long 
Through weary day, and weary year ; 

A wild and many- weapon' d throng 

Hang on thy front, and flank, and rear. 

Yet, nerve thy spirit to the proof, 
And blench not at thy chosen lot ; 

The timid good may stand aloof, 

The same may frown ; yet faint thou not. 



60 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Nor heed the shaft too surely cast, 
The hissing, stinging, bolt of scorn ; 

For with thy side, shall dwell, at last, 
The victory of endurance born. 

Truth, crush'd to earth, shall rise again ; 

The eternal years of God are hers ; 
But error, wounded, writhes with pain, 

And dies among his worshippers. 

Yea, though thou lie upon the dust, 

When they who help'd thee flee in fear, 

Die full of hope and manly trust, 
Like those who fell in battle here. 

Another hand thy sword shall wield, 
Another hand the standard wave, 

Till from the trumpet's mouth is peal'd 
The blast of triumph o'er thy grave. 



Bryant. 



THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM. 

But now the trumpet, terrible from far, 
In shriller clangours animates the war ; 
Confed'rate drums in fuller concert beat, 
And echoing hills the loud alarm repeat : 
Gallia's proud standards to Bavaria's join'd, 
Unfurl their gilded lilies in the wind ; 
The daring prince, his blasted hopes renews, 
And while the thick embattled host he views, 
Stretched out in deep array, and dreadful length, 
His heart dilates, and glories in his strength. 

The fatal day its mighty course began, 

That the grieved world had long desired in vain ; 

States that their new captivity bemoan'd, 

Armies of martyrs that in exile groan'd, 

Sighs from the depth of gloomy dungeons heard. 

And prayers in bitterness of soul preferr'd, 

Europe's loud cries that Providence assail'd, 

And Anna's ardent vows at length prevail'd ; 

The day was come when Heaven design'd to show 

His care and conduct of the world below. 



SELECTIONS IN VERSE. 61 

Behold, in awful march and dread array, 

The long-extended squadrons shape their way ! 

Death in approaching, terrible, imparts 

An anxious horror to the bravest hearts ; 

Yet do their beating breasts demand the strife, 

And thirst of glory quells the love of life. 

No vulgar fears can British minds control ; 

Heat of revenge, and noble pride of soul, 

O'erlook the foe, advantaged by his post, 

Lessen his numbers, and contract his host; 

Though fens and floods possess'd the middle space, 

That, unprovoked, they would have fear'd to pass; 

Nor fens nor floods can stop Britannia's bands, 

When her proud foe ranged on their borders stands. 

But, O my muse, what numbers wilt thou find 

To sing the furious troops in battle join'd ! 

Methinks I hear the drum's tumultuous sound, 

The victor's shouts and dying groans confound ; 

The dreadful burst of cannon rends the skies, 

And all the thunders of the battle rise. 

'Twas then great Marlbro's mighty soul w T as proved, 

That, in the shock of charging hosts unmoved, 

Amidst confusion, horror, and despair, 

Examined all the dreadful scenes of war ; 

In peaceful thought the field of death survey' d, 

To fainting squadrons sent the timely aid, 

Inspired repulsed battalions to engage, 

And taught the doubtful battle wiiere to rage. 

So when an angel, by divine command, 

With rising tempests shakes a guilty land, 

Such as of late o'er pale Britannia pass'd, 

Calm and serene he drives the furious blast, 

And, pleased th' Almighty's orders to perform, 

Rides in the whirlwind, and directs the storm. 

— Addison. 

THE BATTLE OF HOHENLINDEN. 

On Linden, w T hen the sun was low, 
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow, 
And dark as winter was the flow 
Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 



62 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

But Linden saw another sight, 
When the drum beat at dead of night, 
Commanding fires of death to light 
The darkness of her scenery. 

By torch and trumpet fast array'd, 
Each horseman drew his battle-blade, 
And furious every charger neigh'd, 
To join the dreadful revelry. 

Then shook the hills with thunder riven, 
Then rush'd the steed to battle driven, 
And louder than the bolts of heaven, 
Far flashed the red artillery. 

But redder yet that light shall glow, 
On Linden's hills of stained snow ; 
And bloodier yet the torrent flow 
Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 

'Tis morn — but scarce yon level sun, 
Can pierce the war-clouds rolling dun, 
Where furious Frank and fiery Hun 
Shout in their sulphurous canopy. 

The combat deepens — On, ye brave, 
Who rush to glory or the grave ; 
Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave, 
And charge with all thy chivalry ! — 

Few, few shall part where many meet, — 
The snow shall be their winding sheet ; 
And every turf beneath their feet 
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre. 

Campbell. 



THE BATTLE OF MINDEN. 

Now stood Eliza on the wood- crowned height, 
O'er Minden's plain, spectatress of the fight ; 
Sought with bold eye, amid the bloody strife, 
Her dearer self, the partner of her life ; 



SELECTIONS IN VERSE. 63 

From hill to hill the rushing host pursued, 
And view'd his banner, or believed she viewed. 
Pleased with the distant roar, with quicker tread, 
Fast by his hand one lisping boy she led ; 
And one fair girl, amid the loud alarm, 
Slept on her 'kerchief, cradled by her arm : 
While round her brows bright beams of honour dart, 
And love's warm eddies circle round her heart. — 
Near, and more near, the intrepid beauty pressed, 
Saw through the driving smoke, his dancing crest : 
Heard the exulting shout, " They run, they run !" 
" Great God !" she cried, " he's safe ! the battle's won I" — 
A ball now hisses through the airy tides, 
Some Fury winged it, and some Demon guides ! — 
Parts the fine locks, her graceful head that deck, 
Wounds her fair ear, and sinks into her neck ; 
The red stream issuing from her azure veins, 
Dyes her white veil, her ivory bosom stains. 
" Ah me !" she cried, and sinking on the ground, 
Kissed her dear babes, regardless of the wound ; 
" Oh, cease not yet to beat, thou vital urn ! 
Wait, gushing life ! oh, wait my love's return." 
Hoarse barks the wolf, the vulture screams from far, 
The angel Pity shuns the walks of war ! 
" Oh, spare, ye war-hounds, spare their tender age, 
On me — on me," she cried, " exhaust your rage !" 
Then with weak arms, her weeping babes carest, 
And sighing, hid them in her blood-stained vest. 
From tent to tent, th' impatient warrior flies, 
Fear in his heart, and frenzy in his eyes ! 
Eliza's name along the camp he calls, 
" Eliza," echoes through the canvass walls ; 
Quick through the murmuring gloom his footsteps tread, 
O'er groaning heaps, the dying and the dead. 
Vault o'er the plain, and in the tangled wood, 
Lo, dead Eliza, weltering in her blood. — 
Soon hears his listening son the welcome sounds, 
With open arms, and sparkling eyes he bounds — 
" Speak low," he cries, and gives his little hand, 
"Eliza sleeps upon the dew-cold sand;" 
Poor weeping babe, with bloody fingers prest, 
And tried with pouting lips her milkless breast. 



64 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

" Alas, we both with cold and hunger quake; 

" Why do you weep ? — mamma will soon awake." 

tl She'll wake no more," the hopeless mourner cried. 

Upraised his eyes to heaven, he clasped his hands and sighed ; 

Stretched on the ground, awhile entranced he lay, 

And pressed warm kisses on the lifeless clay ; 

And then up sprung, with wild convulsive start, 

And all the father kindled in his heart ! 

" O Heavens," he cried, " my first rash vow forgive, 

These bind to earth — for these I pray to live." 

Round his chill babes he wrapped his crimson vest, 

And clasped them sobbing to his aching breast. 

Darwin. 



THE CAPTIVE. 
Stay, Gaoler, stay, and hear my woe ! 

She is not mad who kneels to thee ; 
For what I was too well I know, 

And what I am, and what should be. 
I'll rave no more in proud despair ; 

My language shall be mild — though sad 
But yet I'll firmly, truly swear, 

I am not mad ! I am not mad ! 

My tyrant husband forged the tale 

Which chains me in this dismal cell ; 
My fate unknown my friends bewail, 

Oh ! gaoler, haste that fate to tell ! 
Oh ! haste, my father's heart to cheer ; 

His heart at once 'twill grieve and glad, 
To know, though kept a captive here, 

I am not mad! I am not mad ! 

He smiles in scorn, and turns the key ! 

He quits the grate ; I knelt in vain ! 
His glimmering lamp, still, still I see! 

'Tis gone, and all is gloom again ! 
Cold — bitter cold — no warmth, no light ! 

Life ! all thy comforts once I had ! 
Yet, here I'm chain'd, this freezing night, 

Altho' not mad ! no, no, not mad ! 



SELECTIONS IN VERSE. 65 

Tis sure some dream — some vision vain ! 

What I, the child of rank and wealth; 
Am I the wretch that clanks this chain, 

Deprived of freedom, friends, and health ? 
Ah ! while I dwell on blessings past, 

Which never more my heart must glad, 
How aches my heart ! how burns my head ! 

But 'tis not mad ! no, 'tis not mad ! 

Hast thou, my child, forgot, ere this, 

A mother's face — a mother's tongue ? 
She'll ne'er forget your parting kiss, 

Nor round her neck how fast you clung, 
Nor how with me you sued to stay ; 

Nor how that suit your sire denied ; 
Nor how — I'll drive such thoughts away ! 

They'll make me mad ! they'll make me madl 

His rosy lips, how sweet they smiled ! 

His mild blue eyes, how bright they shone ! 
None ever bore a lovelier child ! 

And art thou now for ever gone ? 
And shall I never see thee more, 

My pretty, pretty, pretty lad ? 
I will be free ! unbar the door ! 

1 am not mad ! I am not mad ! 

O hark ! what mean those yells and cries ? 

His chain, some furious madman breaks ! 
He comes ! I see his glaring eyes ! 

Now, now my dungeon-grate he shakes ! 
Help ! help ! He's gone ! Oh ! fearful woe, 

Such screams to hear, such sights to see ! 
My brain ! my brain ! — I know, I know, 

I am not mad, but soon shall be ! 

Yes, soon ! for, lo, you ! while I speak, 
Mark how yon demon's eye-balls glare ; 

He sees me — now, with dreadful shriek 
He whirls a serpent high in air. 



66 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Horror ! the reptile strikes his tooth 
Deep in my heart, so crush'd and sad ! 

Ay, laugh, ye fiends ! I feel the truth ; 
Your task is done : I'm mad ! I'm mad ! 

Lewis. 

THE COMBAT. 

FROM " THE LADY OF THE LAKE." 

The chief in silence strode before, 

And reached that torrent's sounding shore, 

Which, daughter of three mighty lakes, 

From Vennachar in silver breaks, 

Sweeps through the plain, and ceaseless mines 

On Bochastle the mouldering lines, 

Where Rome, the empress of the world, 

Of yore her eagle- wings unfurled. 

And here his course the chieftain staid, 

Threw down his target and his plaid, 

And to the Lowland warrior said: — • 

" Bold Saxon ! to his promise just, 

" Vich- Alpine has discharged his trust; 

" This murderous chief, this ruthless man, 

" This head of a rebellious clan, 

" Hath led thee safe through watch and ward, 

" Far past Clan-Alpine's outmost guard. 

u Now man to man, and steel to steel, 

" A chieftain's vengeance thou shalt feel. 

" See, here, all vantageless I stand, 

" Armed, like thyself, with single brand ! 

" For this is Coilantogle ford, 

" And thou must keep thee with thy sword." 

The Saxon paused: — " I ne'er delayed 

'* When foeman bade me draw my blade: 

" Nay, more, brave chief, I vowed thy death ! 

" Yet sure thy fair and generous faith, 

" And my deep debt for life preserved, 

" A better meed have well deserved. 

" Can nought but blood our feud atone ? 

" Are there no means ? " " No, stranger, none ! 



SELECTIONS IN VERSE. 67 



" And hear ! to fire thy flagging zeal, 
" The Saxon cause rests on thy steel ! 
" For thus spoke Fate, by prophet bred, 
" Between the living and the dead : 
" ' Who spills the foremost foeman's life, 
" ' His party conquers in the strife.' " 

" Then, by my word," the Saxon said, 
" The riddle is already read ; 
" Seek yonder brake beneath the cliff ; 
" There lies Red Murdoch — stark and stiff! 
" Thus Fate has solved her prophecy, 
" Then yield to Fate, and not to me ! 
" To James, at Stirling, let us go ; 
" When, if thou wilt be still his foe, 
" Or if the King shall not agree 
" To grant thee grace and favour free, 
" I plight mine honour, oath, and word, 
" That, to thy native strengths restored, 
" With each advantage shalt thou stand, 
" That aids thee now to guard thy land." 

Dark lightning flashed from Roderick's eye : 
" Soars thy presumption then so high, 
" Because a wretched kern ye slew, 
" Homage to name to Roderick Dhu? 
" He yields not, he, to man nor Fate! 
'* Thou add'st but fuel to my hate: 
" My clansman's blood demands revenge. 
11 Not yet prepared ? By Heaven, I change 
" My thought, and hold thy valour light 
" As that of some vain carpet-knight, 
" Who ill deserved my courteous care, 
u And whose best boast is but to wear 
" A braid of his fair lady's hair." 

" I thank thee, Roderick, for the word ; 
" It nerves my heart, and steels my sword ! 
" For I have sworn this braid to stain 
" In the best blood that warms thy vein. 
" Now, turce, farewell ! and, ruth, begone! 
" Yet think not that by thee alone, 
" Proud chief ! can courtesy be shown : 



68 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

'* Though not from copse, or heath, or cairn, 
" Start at my whistle clansmen stern, 
" Of this small horn one feeble blast 
" Would fearful odds against thee cast. 
" But fear not — doubt not — which thou wilt, 
" We try this quarrel hilt to hilt." 
Then each at once his falchion drew, 
Each on the ground his scabbard threw ; 
Each looked to sun, and stream, and plain, 
As what they ne'er might see again. 
Then foot, and point, and eye opposed, 
In dubious strife they darkly closed. 
Ill fared it then with Roderick Dhu, 
That on the field his targe he threw ; 
Whose brazen studs, and tough bull-hide, 
Had death so often dashed aside : 
For, trained abroad his arms to wield, 
Fitz-James's blade was sword and shield. 
He practised every pass and ward, 
To thrust, to strike, to feint, to guard; 
While less expert, though stronger far, 
The Gael maintained unequal war. 
Three times in closing strife they stood, 
And thrice the Saxon blade drank blood ; 
No stinted draught, no scanty tide, 
The gushing flood the tartans dyed. 
Fierce Roderick felt the fatal drain, 
And showered his blows like wintry rain ; 
And, as firm rock, or castle roof, 
Against the winter-shower is proof, 
The foe, invulnerable still, 
Foiled his wild rage by steady skill ; 
Till, at advantage ta'en, his brand 
Forced Roderick's weapon from his hand; 
And, backward borne upon the lea, 
Brought the proud chieftain to his knee. 

" Now, yield thee, Or by Him who made 

" The world, thy heart's blood dyes my blade !' 

" Thy threats, thy mercy, I defy! 
" Let recreant yield who fears to die." 



SELECTIONS IN VERSE. 69 

Like adder darting from his coil, 
Like wolf that dashes through the toil ; 
Like mountain-cat, who guards her young, 
Full at Fitz-James's throat he sprung ; 
Received, but recked not of a wound, 
And locked his arms his foeman round. 
Now, gallant Saxon, hold thine own ! 
No maiden's hand is round thee thrown ! 
That desperate grasp thy frame might feel 
Through bars of brass and triple steel ! 
They tug, they strain ! Down, down they go, 
The Gael above, Fitz-James below. 
The chieftain's gripe his throat compressed ; 
His knee was planted on his breast ; 
His clotted locks he backward threw, 
Across his brow his hand he drew, 
From blood and mist to clear his sight ; 
Then gleamed aloft his dagger bright ! 
But hate and fury ill supplied 
The stream of life's exhausted tide : 
And all too late the advantage came, 
To turn the odds of deadly game ; 
For, while the dagger gleamed on high, 
Reeled soul and sense, reeled brain and eye. 
Down came the blow ! but in the heath 
The erring blade found bloodless sheath. 
The struggling foe may now unclasp 
The fainting chief's relaxing grasp. 
Unwounded from the dreadful close, 
But breathless all, Fitz-James arose. 

SCOTT. 



THE CORSAIR. 

The lights are high on beacon and from bower, 
And 'midst them Conrad seeks Medora's tower : 
He looks in vain — 'tis strange — and all remark, 
Amid so many, her's aloDe is dark. 
'Tis strange — of yore its welcome never failed ! 
Nor now, perchance, extinguished, only veiled. 



70 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

With the first boat descends he for the shore, 
And looks impatient on the lingering oar. 
Oh ! for a wing beyond the falcon's flight, 
To bear him, like an arrow, to that height ! 
With the first pause the resting rowers gave, 
He waits not, looks not, leaps into the wave, 
Strives through the surge, bestrides the beach, and high 
Ascends the path familiar to his eye. 
He reached his turret door — he paused — no sound 
Broke from within ; and all was night around. 
He knocked, and loudly : footstep nor reply 
Announced that any heard, or deemed him nigh. 
He knock' d, but faintly — for his trembling hand 
Refused to aid his heavy heart's demand. 
The portal opens — 'tis a well-known face, 
But not the form he panted to embrace. 
Its lips are silent : twice his own essayed, 
And failed to frame the question they delayed. 
He snatched the lamp — its light will answer all- 
It quits his grasp, expiring in the fall. 
He would not wait for that reviving ray ; 
As soon could he have lingered there for day : 
But, glimmering through the dusky corridor, 
Another chequers o'er the shadowed floor ; 
His steps the chamber gain ; his eyes behold 
All that his heart believed not, yet foretold ! 

He turned not, spoke not, sunk not, fixed his look, 
And set the anxious frame that lately shook: 
He gazed ; how long we gaze, despite of pain, 
And know, but dare not own, we gaze in vain ! 
In life itself she was so still and fair, 
That death with gentler aspect withered there ; 
And the cold flowers her colder hand contained, 
In that last grasp, as tenderly were strained 
As if she scarcely felt, but feigned a sleep, 
And made it almost mockery yet to weep. 
The long dark lashes fringed her lids of snow, 
And veiled — thought shrinks from all that lurked below. 
Oh ! o'er the eye Death most exerts his might, 
And hurls the spirit from her throne of light; 
Sinks those blue orbs in that long last eclipse, 
But spares, as yet, the charm around her lips. 



SELECTIONS IN VERSE. 71 

Yet, yet they seem as they forbore to smile, 
And wished repose, hut only for a while. 
But the white shroud, and each extended tress, 
Long, fair, but spread in utter lifelessness, 
Which, late the sport of every summer wind, 
Escaped the baffled wreath that strove to bind : 
These, and the pale pure cheek, became the bier. 
But she is nothing ! wherefore is he here ? 

He asked no question — all were answered now 
By the first glance on that still marble brow. 
It was enough — she died — what recked it how ? 
The love of youth, the hope of better years, 
The source of softest wishes, tenderest fears ; 
The only living thing he could not hate, 
Was reft at once ! and he deserved his fate, 
But did not feel it less. The good explore 
For peace, those realms where guilt can never soar. 
The proud, the wayward, who have fixed below 
Their joy, and find this earth enough for woe, 
Lose in that one their all — perchance a mite : 
But who in patience parts with all delight ? 
Full many a stoic- eye and aspect stern, 
Mask hearts where grief hath little left to learn ; 
And many a withering thought lies hid — not lost — 
In smiles that least befit who wear them most. 

By those that deepest feel, is ill exprest 
The indistinctness of the suffering breast ; 
Where thousand thoughts begin to end in one, 
Which seeks from all the refuge found in none: 
No words suffice the secret soul to show, 
For truth denies all eloquence to woe. 
On Conrad's stricken soul exhaustion prest, 
And stupor almost lulled it into rest ; 
So feeble now, his mother's softness crept 
To those wild eyes, which, like an infant's, wept : 
It was the very weakness of his brain, 
Which thus confessed, without relieving pain. 
None saw his trickling tears ; perchance, if seen, 
That useless flood of grief had never been : 
Nor long they flowed ; he dried them to depart, 
In helpless, hopeless, brokenness of heart. 



72 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

The sun goes forth, but Conrad's day is dim; 
And the night cometh, ne'er to pass from him. 
There is no darkness like the cloud of mind 
On grief's vain eye — the blindest of the blind ! 
Which may not, dare not, see, but turns aside 
To blackest shade, nor will endure a guide ! 

'Tis morn ! to venture on his lonely hour 
Few dare ; though now Anselmo sought his tower. 
He was not there, nor seen along the shore: 
Ere night, alarmed, their isle is traversed o'er. 
Another morn ! another bids them seek, 
And shout his name till echo waxeth weak ; 
Mount, grotto, cavern, valley, searched in vain, 
They find on shore a sea-boat's broken chain : 
Their hope revives, they follow o'er the main. 
'Tis idle all ! moons roll on moons away, 
And Conrad comes not — came not since that day : 
Nor trace, nor tidings of his doom declare 
Where lives his grief, or perished his despair ! 
Long mourned his band, whom none could mourn beside 
And fair the monument they gave his bride : 
For him they raise not the recording stone ; 
His death yet dubious, deeds too widely known : 
He left a Corsair's name to other times, 
Linked with one virtue, and a thousand crimes. 

Byron. 



THE DEATH OF MARMION. 

Blount and Fitz-Eustace rested still, 

With Lady Clare upon the hill ; 

The cry they heard, its meaning knew, 

Could plain their distant comrades view : 

Sadly to Blount did Eustace say, — 

" Unworthy office here to stay ! 

" No hope of gilded spurs to-day. 

" But see ; look up ! on Flodden bent, 

11 The Scottish foe has fired his tent." 



SELECTIONS IN VERSE. 73 

And sudden, as lie spoke, 
From the sharp ridges of the hill, 
All downward to the banks of Till, 

Was wreathed in sable smoke ; 
Volumed, and fast, and rolling far, 
The cloud enveloped Scotland's war, 

As down the hill they broke. 
Wide raged the battle on the plain ; 
Spears shook, and falchions flashed amain ; 
Fell England's arrow-flight like rain ; 
Crests rose, and stooped, and rose again, 

Wild and disorderly. 
Yet still Lord Marmion's falcon flew 
With wavering flight, while fiercer grew 

Around the battle-yell. 
The Border slogan rent the sky : 
A Home ! a Gordon ! was the cry. 
No longer Blount the view could bear: 
" By heaven and all its saints ! I swear 

" I will not see it lost !* 
" Fitz-Eustace, you, with Lady Clare, 
" May bid your beads, and patter prayer ; 

" I gallop to the host." 

And to the fray he rode amain, 
Followed by all the archer train ; 
The fiery youth, with desperate charge, 
Made, for a space, an opening large— 

The rescued banner rose. 
But darkly closed the war around ; 
Like pine-tree, rooted from the ground, 

It sunk among the foes. 
Then Eustace mounted too ; yet stayed, 
As loth to leave the helpless maid, 

When, fast as shaft can fly, 
Blood-shot his eyes, his nostrils spread, 
The loose rein dangling from his head, 
Housing and saddle bloody-red, 

Lord Marmion's steed rushed by; 
And Eustace, maddening at the sight, 
A look and sign to Clara cast, 

E 



74 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

To mark he would return in haste, 
Then phmged into the fight. 
With that, straight up the hill there rode 
Two horsemen drenched with gore, 
And in their arms, a helpless load, 

A wounded knight they bore. 
His hand still strained the broken brand ; 
His arms were smeared with blood and sand ; 
Dragged from among the horses' feet, 
With dinted shield, and helmet beat, 
The falcon-crest and plumage gone : 
Can that be haughty Marmion ? 
Young Blount his armour did unlace, 
And, gazing on his ghastly face, 
Said, " By Saint George, he's gone ! 
" That spear-wound has our master sped ; 
" And see the deep cut on his head ! 

" Good night to Marmion." 
" Unnurtured Blount, thy brawling cease ; 
" He opes his eyes," said Eustace, " peace I" 

When doffed his casque, he felt free air, 

Around 'gan Marmion wildly stare : 

M Where's Harry Blount, Fitz-Eustace, where ? 

" Linger ye here, ye hearts of hare ? 

" Redeem my pennon, charge again ! 

" Cry, Marmion to the rescue ! Vain ! 

" Last of my race, on battle plain 

" That shout shall ne'er be heard again ! 

" Yet my last thought is England's : — fly, 

" Let Stanley charge with spur of fire ; 

" With Chester charge, and Lancashire, 

" Full upon Scotland's central host, 

" Or victory and England's lost. 

" Must I bid twice ? Hence, varlets, fly ! 

" Leave Marmion here, alone to die." 

They parted, and alone he lay ; 
Clare drew her from the sight away ; 
Till pain wrung forth a lowly moan, 
And half he murmured, " Is there none, 



SELECTIONS IN VERSE. 75 

" Of all my halls have nursed, 
" Page, squire, or groom, one cup to bring 
" Of blessed water from the spring, 

" To slake my dying thirst ?" 
O woman ! in our hours of ease, 
Uncertain, coy, and hard to please, • 
And variable as the shade 
By the light quivering aspen made ; 
When pain and anguish wring the brow, 
A ministering angel thou ! 
Scarce were the piteous accents said, 
When, with the Baron's casque, the maid 

To the nigh streamlet ran : 
Forgot were hatred, wrongs, and fears ; 
The plaintive voice alone she hears, 

Sees but the dying man. 
She stooped her by the runnel's side, 
She filled the helm, and backward hied. 

Deep drank Lord Marmion of the wave ; 
And, as she stooped his brow to lave, 
" Is it the hand of Clare," he said, 
'* Or injured Constance, bathes my head ? 
" I would the fiend, to whom belongs 
" The vengeance due to all her wrongs, 

" Would spare me but a day ! 
" For, wasting fire, and dying groan, 
" And priests slain on the altar-stone, 

" Might bribe him for delay. 

The war, that for a space did fail, 

Now, trebly thundering, 'swelled the gale, 

And, '* Stanley !" was the cry. 
A light on Marmion's visage spread, 

And fired his glazing eye : 
With dying hand above his head, 
He shook the fragment of his blade, 

And shouted, " Victory !" 
" Charge ! Chester, charge ! On, Stanley, on !" 
Were the last words of Marmion. 

Scott. 



76 



THE DOWNFALL OF POLAND. 

O sacred Truth ! thy triumph ceased awhile, 
And Hope, thy sister, ceased with thee to smile, 
When leagued oppression poured to northern wars 
Her whiskered pandours and her fierce hussars, 
Waved her dread standard to the breeze of morn, 
Pealed her loud drum, and twanged her trumpet horn ; 
Tumultuous horror brooded o'er her van, 
Presaging wrath to Poland — and to man ! 

Warsaw's last champion from her height surveyed, 

Wide o'er the fields, a waste of ruin laid : 

" O Heaven !" he cried, " my bleeding country save ! 

" Is there no hand on high to shield the brave ? 

" Yet, though destruction sweep those lovely plains, 

" Rise, fellow-men, our country yet remains ! 

" Bj that dread name, we Wave the sword on high, 

" And swear for her to live — with her to die !" 

He said, and on the rampart-heights arrayed 
His trusty warriors, few, but undismayed ; 
Firm-paced and slow, a horrid front they form, 
Still as the breeze, but dreadful as the storm ; 
Low murmuring sounds along their banners fly, 
" Revenge, or death" — the watch-word and reply ; 
Then pealed the notes, omnipotent to charm, 
And the loud tocsin tolled their last alarm. 

In vain, alas ! in vain, ye gallant few, 

From rank to rank your volleyed thunder flew : 

O bloodiest picture in the book of time ! 

Sarmatia fell, unwept, without a crime : 

Found not a generous friend, a pitying foe, 

Strength in her arms, nor mercy in her wo ! 

Dropped from her nerveless grasp the shattered spear, 

Closed her bright eye, and curbed her high career; 

Hope, for a season, bade the world farewell, 

And Freedom shrieked as Kosciusko fell ! 

The sun went down, nor ceased the carnage there ; 
Tumultuous murder shook the midnight air: 



SELECTIONS IN VERSE. *77 

On Prague's proud arch the fires of ruin glow, 
His blood- dyed waters murmuring far below. 
The storm prevails, the rampart yields a way, 
Bursts the wild cry of horror and dismay ! 
Hark ! as the smouldering piles with thunder fall, 
A thousand shrieks for hopeless mercy call ! 
Earth shook — red meteors flashed along the sky, 
And conscious Nature shuddered at the cry. 

Oh ! righteous Heaven ; ere Freedom found a grave, 
Why slept the sword, omnipotent to save ? 
Where was thine arm, O Vengeance I where thy rod, 
That smote the foes of Zion and of God; 
That crushed proud Ammon, when his iron car 
Was yoked in wrath, and thundered from afar ? 
Where was the storm that slumbered till the host 
Of blood-stained Pharaoh left their trembling coast; 
Then bade the deep in wild commotion flow, 
And heaved an ocean on their march below? 

Departed spirits of the mighty dead ! 
Ye that at Marathon and Leuctra bled ! 
Friends of the world, restore your swords to man ; 
Fight in his sacred cause, and lead the van : 
Yet for Sarmatia's tears of blood atone, 
And make her arm puissant as your own. 
Oh ! once again, to Freedom's cause return 
The patriot Tell — the Bruce of Bannockburn ! 

Campbell. 



THE FALL OF CORINTH. 

O'er Corinth shines the glowing sun, 

As if the morn were a jocund one ; 

Brightly breaks the night away, 

To light the Moslem to the fray. 

Hark ! to the trump, and the drum, 

And the neigh of the steed and the multitude's hum, 

And the clash, and the shout, " They come ! they come ! " 

The horse-tails are pluck'd from the ground, and the sword 

From its sheath ; and they form and but wait for the word. 



78 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Tartar, and Spahi, and Turcoman, 

Strike your tents, and throng to the van ; 

Mount ye, spur ye, skirr the plain, 

That the fugitive may flee in vain, 

When he breaks from the town ; and none escape, 

Aged or young, in the Christian shape ; 

The steeds are all bridled, and snort to the rein ; 

Curved is each neck, and flowing each mane ; 

White is the foam of their champ on the bit ; 

The spears are uplifted ; the matches are lit ; 

The cannon are pointed and ready to roar, 

And crush the wall they have shaken before : 

When the culverin's signal is fired, then on ; 

Leave not in Corinth a living one — 

A priest at her altars, a chief in her halls, — 

A hearth in her mansions, a stone on her walls. 

God and the Prophet !— Alia Hu ! 

Up to the skies with that wild halloo ! 

" There the breach lies for passage, the ladder to scale ; 

" And your hands on your sabres, and how should ye fail ? 

" He who plucks down the red cross may crave 

" His heart's dearest wish ; let him ask it, and have ! " 

Thus uttered Coumourgi, the dauntless vizier ; 

The reply was the brandish of sabre and spear, 

And the shout of fierce thousands in joyous ire : — 

Silence — hark to the signal — fire ! 

As the wolves that headlong go 

On the stately buffalo, 

Though with fiery eyes, and angry roar, 

And hoofs that stamp and horns that gore, 

He tramples on earth or tosses on high 

The foremost, who rush on his strength but to die : 

Thus against the wall they bent, 

Thus the first were backward sent ; 

Many a bosom, sheathed in brass, 

Strewed the earth like broken glass, 

Shivered by the shot, that tore 

The ground whereon they moved no more : 

E'en as they fell, in files they lay, 

Like the mower's grass at the close of day, 

When his work is done on the levelled plain ; 

Such was the fall of the foremost train. 



SELECTIONS IN VERSE. 79 

Thus, at length, outhreathed and worn, 

Corinth's sons were downward borne 

By the long and oft renewed 

Charge of the Moslem multitude. 

In firmness they stood, and in masses they fell, 

Heap'd by the host of the infidel ; 

Hand to hand, and foot to foot ; 

Nothing there, save death, was mute. 

But the rampart is won, and the spoil begun, 

And all but the after carnage done. 

Shriller shrieks now mingling come 

From within the plunder' d dome : 

Hark to the haste of flying feet, 

That splash in the blood of the slippery street; 

But here and there, where 'vantage ground 

Against the foe may still be found, 

Desperate groups, of twelve or ten, 

Make a pause, and turn again — 

With banded backs against the wall, 

Fiercely stand, or fighting fall. 

The turbaned host, 

"With adding ranks and raging boast, 

Press onwards with such strength and heat, 

Their numbers baulk their own retreat ; 

For narrow the way that led to the spot 

Where still the Christians yielded not ; 

And the foremost, if fearful, may vainly try 

Through the massy column to turn and fly ; 

They perforce must do or die. 

They die; but ere their eyes could close, 

Avengers o'er their bodies rose ; 

Fresh and furious, fast they fill 

The ranks unthinned, though slaughtered still ; 

And faint the weary Christians wax 

Before the still renewed attacks : 

And now the Othmans gain the gate ; 

Still resists its iron weight, 

And still, all deadly aimed and hot, 

From every crevice comes the shot ; 

From every shattered window pour 

The volleys of the sulphurous shower ; 



80 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

But the portal wavering grows and weak — 
The iron yields, the hinges creak — 
It bends — it falls — and all is o'er ; 
Lost Corinth may resist no more ! 
Darkly, sternly, and all alone 
Minotti stood ; 

The vaults beneath the mosaic stone 
Contained the dead of ages gone ; 
Here, throughout the siege, had been 
The Christians' chiefest magazine ; 
To these a late -formed train now led, 
Minotti's last and stern resource 
Against the foe's o'erwhelming force. 
So near they came, the nearest stretched 
To grasp the spoils he almost reach'd, 
When old Minotti's hand 
Touched with the torch the train — 

'Tis fired ! 
Spire, vaults, the shrine, the spoil, the slain, 
The turbaned victor's, the Ciiristian band, 
All that of living or dead remain, 
Hurled on high with the shivered fane, 

In one wild roar expired ! 
The shattered town — the walls thrown down- 
The waves a moment backward bent — 
The hills that shake, although unrent, 

As if an earthquake passed — 
The thousand shapeless things all driven, 
In cloud and flame athwart the heaven, 

By that tremendous blast — 
Proclaimed the desperate conflict o'er 
On that too long afflicted shore : 
All the living things that heard 
That deadly earth- shock disappeared : 
The wild birds flew ; the wild dogs fled, 
And howling left the unburied dead ; 
The wolves yelled on the caverned hill, 
Where echo rolled in thunder still ; 
The jackal's troop, in gathered cry, 
Bayed from afar complainingly ; 
With sudden wing, and ruffled breast, 
The eagle left his rocky nest, 



SELECTIONS IN VERSE. 81 



And mounted nearer to the sun, 
The clouds beneath him seemed so dun ; 
Their smoke assailed his startled beak, 
And made him higher soar and shriek — 
Thus was Corinth lost and won ! 



Byron. 



THE FIELD OF WATERLOO. 

Stop ! for thy tread is on an empire's dust, 
An earthquake's spoil is sepulchred below ! 
Is the spot marked with no colossal bust? 
Nor column trophied for triumphal show ? 
None; but the moral's truth tells simpler so. 
As the ground was before, thus let it be. 
How that red rain hath made the harvest grow ! 
And is this all the world has gain'd by thee, 
Thou first and last of fields, king-making Victory ? 

There was a sound of revelry by night, 
And Belgium's capital had gathered then 
Her beauty and her chivalry ; and bright 
The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men : 
A thousand hearts beat happily ; and when 
Music arose with its voluptuous swell, 
Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again ; 
And all went merry as a marriage -bell, 
But hush ! hark ! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell. 

Did ye not hear it ? No ; 'twas but the wind, 
Or the car rattling o'er the stony street ; 
On with the dance ; let joy be unconfined ! 
No sleep till morn, when youth and pleasure meet 
To chase the glowing hours with flying feet — 
But, hark! that heavy sound breaks in once more, 
As if the clouds its echo would repeat ; 
And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before. 
Arm ! arm ! it is, it is, the cannon's opening roar ! 
e 5 



82 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Within a window'd niche of that high hall 
Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain ; he did hear 
That sound the first amidst the festival, 
And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear : 
And when they smiled because he deem'd it near, 
His heart more truly knew that peal too well, 
Which stretch' d his father on a bloody bier, 
And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell : 
He rush'd into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell ! 

Ah ! then and there, was hurrying to and fro, 
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, 
And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago 
Blush' d at the praise of their own loveliness ; 
And there were sudden partings, such as press 
The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs 
Which ne'er might be repeated ; who could guess 
If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, 
Since upon night so sweet, such awful morn could rise. 

And there was mounting in hot haste : the steed, 
The mustering squadron, and the clattering car, 
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, 
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war ; 
And the deep thunder peal on peal afar ; 
And near, the beat of the alarming drum 
Roused up the soldier ere the morning- star ; 
While thronged the citizens, with terror dumb, 
Or whispering, with white lips — " The foe I they come, 
they come {" 

And wild and high the " Cameron's gathering !" rose ; 
The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills 
Have heard — and heard, too, have her Saxon foes : 
How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills, 
Savage and shrill ! But with the breath which fills 
Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers 
With the fierce native daring, which instils 
The stirring memory of a thousand years ; 
And Evan's, Donald's, fame rings in each clansman's ears. 



SELECTIONS IN VERSE. 83 

And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves, 
Dewy with Nature's tear-drops, as they pass, 
Grieving — if aught inanimate e'er grieves— 
Over the unreturning brave ; alas 1 
Ere evening to be trodden, like the grass 
Which now beneath them, but above shall grow 
In its next verdure ; when this fiery mass 
Of living valour, rolling on the foe, 
And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low. 

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life ; 
Last eve in beauty's circle proudly gay ; 
The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife ; 
The morn, the marshalling in arms — -the day, 
Battle's magnificently- stern array ! 
The thunder- clouds close o'er it, which when rent, 
The earth is covered thick with other clay, 
Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent, 
Rider and horse, friend, foe, in one red burial blent. 

Byron. 

THE GRAVE OF KORNER. 
Rest, bard ! rest, soldier ! By the father's hand 

Here shall the child of after years be led, 
With his wreath-offering silently to stand 

In the hushed presence of the glorious dead, 
Soldier and bard! for thou thy path hast trod 
With freedom and with God. 

The oak waved proudly o'er thy burial-rite, 

On thy crown'd bier to slumber warriors bore thee ; 

And, with true hearts, thy brethren of the fight 

Wept as they vail'd their drooping banners o'er thee. 

And the deep guns, with rolling peel, gave token 
That lyre and sword were broken. 

Thou hast a hero's tomb ; a lowlier bed 

Is hers, the gentle girl, beside thee lying, 
The gentle girl, that bow'd her fair young head, 

When thou wert gone, in silent sorrow dying. 
Brother ! true friend ! the tender and the brave ! 
She pined to share thy grave. 



84 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Fame was thy gift from others ; but for her 
To whom the wide earth held that only spot 

She lov'd thee ! Lovely in your lives ye were,, 
And in your early deaths divided not ! 

Thou hast thine oak, thy trophy; what hath she ? 
Her own blest place by thee. 

It was thy spirit, brother, which had made 

The bright world glorious to her thoughtful eye, 

Since first in childhood 'midst the vines ye play'd, 
And sent glad singing through the free blue sky ! 

Ye were but two ; and, when that spirit pass'd, 
Wo to the one — the last ! 

Wo, yet not long ! she linger'd but to trace 
Thine image from the image in her breast ; 

Once, once again, to see that buried face 
But smile upon her ere she went to rest. 

Too sad a smile ! its living light was o'er, 
It answered hers no more. 

The earth grew silent when thy voice departed ; 

The home too lonely when thy step had fled : 
What then was left for her, the faithful-hearted ? 

Death ! death, to still the yearning for the dead. 
Softly she perish'd — be the flower deplored 
Here, with the lyre and sword. 

Have ye not met her now ? So let those trust 
That meet for moments but to part for years ; 

That weep, watch, pray, to hold back dust from dust, 
That love where love is but a fount of tears ! 

Brother ! sweet sister ! peace around ye dwell ! 

Lyre, sword, and flower, farewell ! Mrs. Hemans. 



THE ISLES OF GREECE. 

The Tsles of Greece, the Isles of Greece ! 

Where burning Sappho loved and sung, 
Where grew the arts of war and peace, — 

Where Delos rose and Phoebus sprung; 
Eternal summer gilds them yet, 
But all except their sun, is set. 



SELECTIONS IN VERSE. 85 

The Scian and the Teian muse, 

The hero's harp ; the lover's lute, 
Have found the fame your shores refuse; 

Their place of birth alone is mute, 
To sounds which echo farther west 
Than your sires' " Islands of the blest." 

The mountains look on Marathon — 

And Marathon looks on the sea ; 
Musing there an hour alone, 

I dream'd that Greece might still be free ; 
For standing on the Persians' grave, 
I could not deem myself a slave. 

A king sat on the rocky brow, 

Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis : 
And ships, by thousands, lay below, 

And men in nations : — all were his. 
He counted them at break of day — 
And when the sun set, where were they ? 

And where are they ? And where art thou, 
My country ? On thy voiceless shore 

The heroic lay is tuneless now — 
The heroic bosom beats no more ! 

And must thy lyre, so long divine, 

Degenerate into hands like mine ? 

'Tis something in the dearth of fame, 
Though link'd within a fetter' d race ; 

To feel at least a patriot's shame, 
E'en as I sing, suffuse my face ; 

For what is left the poet here ? 

For Greeks — a blush ; for Greece — a tear ! 

Must we but weep o'er days more bless'd ? 

Must we but blush ?— Our fathers bled. 
Earth ! render back from out thy breast 

A remnant of our Spartan dead ? 
Of the three hundred grant but three, 
To make a new Thermopylae ! 



86 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

What ! silent still, — and silent all ! 

Ah ! no — the voices of the dead 
Sound like a distant torrent's fall, 

And answer, " Let one living head, 
" But one arise, — we come, we come ! 
" 'Tis but the living who are dumb." 

In vain — in vain ! strike other chords ; 

Fill high the cup with Samian wine ! 
Leave battles to the Turkish hordes, 

And shed the blood of Scio's vine ! 
Hark ! rising to the ignoble call 
How answers each bold bacchanal. 

You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet, 
Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone ? 

Of two such lessons, why forget 
The noblier and the manlier one. 

You have the letters Cadmus gave — 

Think ye he meant them for a slave ? 

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 

We will not think of themes like these ! 
It made Anacreon's songs divine : 

He served — but served Polycrates — 
A tyrant — but our masters then 
Were still at least our countrymen. 

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 

On Suli's rocks and Parga's shore, 
Exists the remnant of a line 

Such as the Doric mothers bore ; 
And there, perhaps, some seed is sown, 
The Heracleidan blood might own. 

Trust not for freedom to the Franks — 
They have a king that buys and sells : 

In native swords, and native ranks, 
The only hope of courage dwells ; 

But Turkish force, and Latin fraud, 

Would break your shield, however broad. 



SELECTIONS IN VERSE. 87 

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 

Our virgins dance beneath the shade — 
I see their glorious black eyes shine : 

But gazing on each glowing maid, 
My own the burning tear-drop laves, 
To think such breasts must suckle slaves. 

Place me on Sunium's marbled steep — 
Where nothing, save the waves and I, 

May hear our mutual murmurs sweep ; 
There, swan -like, let me sing and die : 

A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine — 

Dash down yon cup of Samian wine ! Byron. 



THE LAST DAYS OF HERCULANEUM. 

EXTRACTED FROM A POEM OP THE SAME TITLE. 

There was a man, 
A Roman soldier, for some daring deed, 
That trespassed on the laws, in dungeon low 
Chained down. His was a noble spirit, rough, 
But generous, and brave, and kind. 
He had a son, 'twas a rosy boy, 
A little faithful copy of his sire 
In face and gesture. In her pangs she died 
That gave him birth ; and ever since the child 
Had been his father's solace and his care. 

Every sport 
The father shared and heightened. But at length 
The rigorous law had grasped him, and condemned 
To fetters and to darkness. 

The captive's lot 
He felt in all its bitterness : — the walls 
Of his deep dungeon answered many a sigh 
And heart-heaved groan. His tale was known, and touched 
His jailor with compassion ; — and the boy, 
Thenceforth a frequent visitor, beguiled 
His father's lingering hours, and brought a balm 
With his loved presence that in every wound 
Dropt healing. But in this terrific hour 
He was a poisoned arrow in the breast 
Where he had been a cure. 



88 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

With earliest morn, 
Of that first day of darkness and amaze, 
He came. The iron door was closed — for them 
Never to open more ! The day, the night, 
Dragged slowly by ; nor did they know the fate 
Impending o'er the city. Well they heard 
The pent up thunders in the earth beneath, 
And felt its giddy rocking ; and the air 
Grew hot, at length, and thick ; but in his straw 
The boy was sleeping: and the father hoped 
The earthquake might pass by ; nor would he wake 
From his sound rest the unfearing child, nor tell 
The dangers of their state. On his low couch 
The fettered soldier sunk — and with deep awe 
Listened the fearful sounds:— with upturned eye 
To the great gods he breathed a prayer ; then strove 
To calm himself, and lose in sleep a while 
His useless terrors. But he could not sleep : — 
His body burned with feverish heat ; — his chains 
Clanked loud, although he moved not : deep in earth 
Groaned unimaginable thunders : — sounds, 
Fearful and ominous, arose and died, 
Like the sad moanings of November's wind 
In the blank midnight. Deepest horror chilled 
His blood that burned before ; — cold clammy sweats 
Came o'er him : — then anon a fiery thrill 
Shot through his veins. Now on his couch he shrunk 
And shivered as in fear : — now upright leaped, 
As though he heard the battle trumpet sound, 
And longed to cope with death. 

He slept at last 
A troubled dreamy sleep. Well — had he slept 
Never to waken more ! His hours are few, 
But terrible his agony. 

Soon the storm 
Burst forth : the lightnings glanced : — the air 
Shook with the thunders. They awoke ; they sprung 
Amazed upon their feet. The dungeon glowed 
A moment as in sunshine — and was dark : — 
Again a flood of white flame fills the cell; 
Dying away upon the dazzled eye 



SELECTIONS IN VERSE. 89 

In darkening, quivering tints, as stunning sound 

Dies throbbing, ringing in the ear. Silence, 

And blackest darkness. With intensest awe 

The soldier's frame was filled ; and many a thought 

Of strange foreboding hurried through his mind, 

As underneath he felt the fevered earth 

Jarring and lifting — and the massive walls 

Heard harshly grate and strain: yet knew he not, 

While evils undefined and yet to come 

Glanced through his thoughts, what deep and cureless 

wound 
Fate had already given. Where, man of woe ! 
Where, wretched father ! is thy boy ? Thou callest 
His name in vain : — he cannot answer thee. 

Loudly the father called upon his child : — 
No voice replied. Trembling and anxiously 
He searched their couch of straw: — with headlong 

haste 
Trod round his stinted limits, and, low bent, 
Groped darkling on the earth : — no child was there. 
Again he called: — again at farthest stretch 
Of his accursed fetters — till the blood 
Seemed bursting from his ears, and from his e^es 
Fire flashed — he strained with arm extended far, 
And fingers widely spread, greedy to touch 
Though but his idol's garment. Useless toil, 
Yet still renewed: — still round and round he goes, 
And strains and snatches — and with dreadful cries 
Calls on his boy. Mad frenzy fires him now ; 
He plants against the wall his feet ; — his chain 
Grasps ; — tugs with giant strength, to force away 
The deep-driven staple; — yells and shrieks with rage. 
And, like a desert lion in the snare, 
Eaging to break his toils — to and fro bounds. 
But see ! the ground is opening ; — a blue light 
'Mounts, gently waving — noiseless : — thin and cold 
It seems, and like a rainbow tint, not flame; 
But by its lustre, on the earth outstretched, 
Behold the lifeless child ! — his dress is singed, 
And over his serene face a dark line 
Points out the lightning's track. 



90 



THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 



The father saw — 
And all his fury fled : — a dead calm fell 
That instant on him : — speechless fixed hestood, 
And with a look that never wandered, gazed 
Intensely on the corse. Those laughing eyes 
Were not yet closed — and round those pouting lips 
The wonted smile returned. 

Silent and pale 
The father stands : — no tear is in his eye : — 
The thunders hellow — but he hears them not : — 
The ground lifts like a sea — he knows it not : — 
The strong walls grind and gape : — the vaulted roof 
Takes shapes like bubble tossing in the wind: — 
See ! he looks up and smiles ; — for death to him 
Is happiness. Yet could one last embrace 
Be given, 'twere still a sweeter thing to die. 

It will be given. Look ! how the rolling ground, 
At every swell, nearer and still more near 
Moves towards the father's outstretched arm his boy: — 
Once he has touched his garment ; — how his eye 
lightens with love — and hope — and anxious fears ! 
Ha ! See ! he has him now ! — he clasps him round — 
Kisses his face ; — puts back the curling locks 
That shaded^his fine brow : — looks in his eyes — 
Grasps in his own those little dimpled hands — 
Then folds him to his breast, as he was wont 
To lie when sleeping — and resigned awaits 
Undreaded death. 

And death came soon and swift, 
And pangless. 

The huge pile sunk down at once 
Into the opening earth. Walls — arches— roof — 
And deep foundation-stones — all mingling fell ? 

Atherstone. 



THE LEPER. 

" Room for the leper ! room !" — And as he came, 
The cry passed on — " Room for the leper ! room ! ' 
Sunrise was slanting on the city gates 
Rosy and beautiful ; and from the hills 



SELECTIONS IN VERSE. 91 

The early-risen poor were coming in, 
Duly and cheerfully, to their toil; and up 
Rose the sharp hammer's clink, and the far hum 
Of moving wheels, and multitudes astir, 
And all that in a city murmur swells. 

" Room for the leper !" and aside they stood, 
Matron, and child, and pitiless manhood — all 
"Who met him on the way — and let him pass. 
And onward through the open gate he came, 
A leper, with the ashes on his brow, 
Sack-cloth about his loins, and on his lip 
A covering, stepping painfully and slow, 
And with a difficult utterance, like one 
Whose heart is with an iron nerve put down, 
Crying, " Unclean ! unclean !" 

'Twas daybreak now, — 
When at the altar of the temple stood 
The holy priest of God. The incense-lamp 
Burned with a struggling light, and a low chaunt 
Swelled thro' the hollow arches of the roof 
Like an articulate wail ; and there alone, 
To ghastly thinness shrunk, the leper knelt — 
The echoes of the melancholy strain 
Died in the distant aisles ; and he rose up, 
Struggling with weakness, and bowed down his head 
Unto the sprinkled ashes, and put off 
His costly raiment for the leper's garb, 
Then, with his sack-cloth round him, and his lips 
Hid in a loathsome covering, stood still 
To hear his doom : — 

" Depart ! depart, O child 
" Of Israel from the temple of thy God ! 
"For He hath smote thee with His chastening rod, 

" And to the desert wild, 
" From all thou lov'st, away thy feet must flee, 
M That from thy plague His people may be free." 

And he went forth — alone ; not one of all 
The many whom he loved, nor she whose name 
Was woven in the fibres of his heart, 
Breaking within him now, to come and speak 
Comfort unto him — yea, he went his way, 



92 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Sick and heart-broken ? and alone. 

'Twas noon, — 
The leper knelt beside a stagnant pool 
In the lone wilderness, and bathed his brow, 
Hot with the burning- leprosy, and touched 
The loathsome water to his fevered lips, 
Praying that he might be so blessed — to die ! 
Footsteps approached, and, with no strength to flee, 
He drew the covering closer to his lip, 
Crying, " Unclean ! unclean !" and, in the folds 
Of the coarse sack-cloth, shrouding up his face, 
He fell upon the earth till they should pass. 
Nearer the stranger came, and bending o'er 
The prostrate form, pronounced the leper's name ; — 
The voice was music, and disease's pulse 
Beat for a moment with restoring thrill : 
He rose, and stood ; 

The stranger gazed awhile, 
As if his heart were moved, then stooping down, 
He took a little water in his palm, 
And laid it on his brow, and said, " Be clean !" 
And lo ! the scales fell from him, and his blood 
Coursed with delicious coolness through the veins ; 
His palms grew moist, the leprosy was cleansed ; 
He fell and worshipped at the feet of Jesus. 

Willis. 



THE PARTING OF HECTOR AND 
ANDROMACHE. 
Too daring prince, ah, whither dost thou run ? 
Ah, too forgetful of thy wife and son ! 
And think'st thou not how wretched we shall be, 
A widow I, a helpless orphan he ! 
For sure such courage length of life denies, 
And thou must fall, thy virtue's sacrifice. 
Greece in her single heroes strove in vain ; 
Now hosts oppose thee, and thou must be slain. 
O grant me, gods, ere Hector meets his doom, 
All 1 can ask of Heaven, an early tomb ! 
So shall my days in one sad tenor run, 
And end with sorrows, as they first begun. 



SELECTIONS IN VERSE. 



93 



No parent now remains, my griefs to share, 

No father's aid, no mother's tender care. 

The fierce Achilles wrapped our walls in fire, 

Laid Thebe waste, and slew my warlike sire ! 

His fate compassion in the victor bred ; 

Stern as he was, he yet revered the dead ; 

His radiant arms preserved from hostile spoil, 

And laid him decent on the funeral pile : 

Then raised a mountain where his bones were burned : 

The mountain nymphs the rural tomb adorned : 

Jove's sylvan daughters bade their elms bestow 

A barren shade, and in his honour grow. 

By the same arm my seven brave brothers fell ; 

In one sad day beheld the gates of hell : 

While the fat herds and snowy flocks they fed, 

Amid their fields the hapless heroes bled ! 

My mother lived to bear the victor's bands, 

The queen of Hippoplacia's sylvan lands ; 

Redeemed too late, she scarce beheld again 

Her pleasing empire and her native plain, 

When ah ! oppressed by life-consuming woe, 

She fell a victim to Diana's bow. 

Yet while my Hector still survives, I see 
My father, mother, brethren, all, in thee : 
Alas ! my parents, brothers, kindred, all, 
Once more will perish, if my Hector fall. 
Thy wife, thy infant, in thy danger share : 
O prove a husband's and a father's care ! 
That quarter most the skilful Greeks annoy, 
Where yon wild fig-trees join the wall of Troy : 
Thou from this tower defend the important post, 
There Agamemnon points his dreadful host ; 
That pass Tydides, Ajax, strive to gain, 
And there the vengeful Spartan fires his train. 
Thrice our bold foes the fierce attack have given, 
Or led by hopes, or dictated from heaven : 
Let others in the field their arms employ, 
But stay my Hector here, and guard his Troy. 

The chief replied : That post shall be my care ; 
Not that alone, but all the works of war. 



94 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

How would the sons of Troy, in arms renowned, 

And Troy's proud dames, whose garments sweep the 

ground, 
Attaint the lustre of my former name, 
Should Hector basely quit the field of fame ? 
My early youth was bred to martial pains, 
My soul impels me to the embattled plains : 
Let me be foremost to defend the throne, 
And guard my father's glories, and my own. 
Yet come it will, the day decreed by fates : 
(How my heart trembles while my tongue relates !) 
The day when thou, imperial Troy, must bend, 
And see thy warriors fall, thy glories end — 
And yet no dire presage so wounds my mind, 
My mother's death, the ruin of my kind, 
Not Priam's hoary hairs defiled with gore, 
Not all my brothers gasping on the shore, 
As thine, Andromache ! thy griefs I dread ; 
I see thee trembling, weeping, captive led, 
In Argive looms our battles to design, 
And woes, of which so large a part was thine ! 
To bear the victor's hard commands, or bring 
The weight of waters from Hyperia's spring. 
There, while you groan beneath the load of life, 
They cry, Behold the mighty Hector's wife ! 
Some haughty Greek, who loves thy tears to see, 
Embitters all thy woes, by naming me. 
The thoughts of glory past, and present shame, 
A thousand griefs shall waken at the name ! 
May I he cold before that dreadful day, 
Press'd with a load of monumental clay ! 
Thy Hector, wrapt in everlasting sleep, 
Shall neither hear thee sigh, nor see thee weep. 

Thus having spoke, the illustrious chief of Troy 
Stretch 'd his fond arms to clasp the lovely boy. 
The babe clung crying to his nurse's breast, 
Scared at the dazzling helm and nodding crest. 
With secret pleasure each fond parent smiled, 
And Hector hastened to relieve his child ; 
The glittering terrors from his brows unbound, 
And placed the beaming helmet on the ground. 



SELECTIONS IN VERSE. 95 

Then kissed the child, and, lifting high in air, 
Thus to the gods preferred a father's prayer :— 
O thou, whose glory fills the ethereal throne, 
And all ye deathless powers, protect my son ! 
Grant him, like me, to purchase just renown, 
To guard the Trojans, to defend the crown, 
Against his country's foes the war to wage, 
And rise the Hector of the future age ! 

Pope's Homer. 



THE PASSIONS. 
When Music, heavenly maid, was young, 
While yet in early Greece she sung, 
The Passions oft, to hear her shell, 
Thronged around her magic cell ; 
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting, 
Possest beyond the Muse's painting. 
By turns they felt the glowing mind 
Disturbed, delighted, raised, refined. 
Till once, 'tis said, when all were fired, 
Filled with fury, rapt, inspired, 
From the supporting myrtles round 
They snatched her instruments of sound, 
And, as they oft had heard apart, 
Sweet lessons of her forceful art, 
Each (for madness ruled the hour,) 
Would prove his own expressive power. 

First Fear his hand, its skill to try, 
Amid the chords bewildered laid, 

And back recoiled, he knew not why, 
E'en at the sound himself had made. 

Next Anger rushed : his eyes on fire, 
In lightnings owned his secret stings ; 

In one rude clash he struck the lyre, 

And swept with hurried hand the strings. 

With woeful measures wan Despair — 
Low sullen sounds his grief beguiled ; 

A solemn, strange, and mingled air, 
'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild. 



96 



THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 



But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair, 
What was thy delighted measure ? 
Still it whispered promised pleasure, 
And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail ! 

Still would her touch the strain prolong, 
And from the rocks, the woods, the vale, 

She called on Echo still through all the song ; 
And when her sweetest theme she chose, 
A soft responsive voice was heard at every close, 
And Hope enchanted smiled, and waved her golden hair. 

And longer had she sung — but, with a frown, 

Revenge impatient rose : 
He threw his blood-stained sword in thunder down, 
And, with a withering look, 
The war-denouncing trumpet took, 
And blew a blast so loud and dread, 
Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe. 
And ever and anon he beat 
The doubling drum with furious heat ; 
And though sometimes, each dreary pause between, 
Dejected Pity at his side 
Her soul-subduing voice applied, 
Yet still he kept his wild unaltered mien, 
While each strained ball of sight seem'd bursting from his 
head. 



Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fixed, 

Sad proof of thy distressful state, 
Of differing themes the veering song was mixed, 

And now it courted Love, now raving called on Hate. 

With eyes upraised, as one inspired, 

Pale Melancholy sat retired, 

And from her wild sequestered seat, 

In notes by distance made more sweet, 

Poured through the mellow horn her pensive soul : 

And dashing soft from rocks around, 

Bubbling runnels joined the sound ; 
Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole. 



SELECTIONS IN VERSE. 97 

Or o'er some haunted stream with fond delay, 

Round a holy calm diffusing, 

Love of peace and lonely musing, 
In hollow murmurs died away. 

But, oh ! how altered was its sprightlier tone, 
When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue, 

Her bow across her shoulder flung, 
Her buskins gemmed with morning dew, 

Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung, 
The hunter's call, to Faun and Dryad known: 

The oak-crowned sisters, and their chaste-eyed queen, 

Satyrs and sylvan boys were seen, 

Peeping from forth their alleys green ; 
Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear, 
And Sport leapt up, and seized his beechen spear. 

Last came Joy's ecstatic trial ; 
He, with viny crown advancing, 

First to the lively pipe his hand addrest, 
But soon he saw the brisk awaking viol, 

Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best; 
They would have thought, who heard the strain, 

They saw in Tempe's vale her native maids 

Amidst the festal-sounding shades, 
To some unwearied minstrel dancing, 
While, as his flying fingers kissed the strings, 

Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round, 

Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound , 

And he, amidst his frolic play, 

As if he would the charming air repay, 
Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings. 

Collins. 



THE PLAINS OF MARATHON. 

Where'er we tread, 'tis haunted, holy ground ! 
No earth of thine is lost in vulgar mould ! 
But one vast realm of wonder spreads around, 
And all the Muse's tales seem truly told, 
p 



98 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Till the sense aches with gazing to behold 
The scenes our earliest dreams have dwelt upon : 
Each hill and dale, each deepening glen and wold, 
Defies the power which crushed thy temples gone: 
Age shakes Athena's tower, but spares grey Marathon. 

The sun, the soil, but not the slave, the same, 
Unchanged in all, except its foreign lord, 
Preserves alike its bounds, and boundless fame, 
The Battle-field where Persia's victim-horde 
First bowed beneath the brunt of Hellas' sword; 
As on the morn to distant Glory dear, 
When Marathon became a magic word, 
Which uttered — to the hearer's eye appear, 
The camp, the host, the fight, the conqueror's career. 

The flying Mede— his shaftless broken bow ! 
The fiery Greek — his red pursuing spear ! 
Mountains above — Earth's — Ocean's plain below ; 
Death in the front — Destruction in the rear ! 
Such was the scene : what now remain eth here? 
What sacred trophy marks the hallow'd ground, 
Recording Freedom's smile and Asia's tear ? 
The rifled urn, the violated mound, 
The dust — thy courser's hoof, rude stranger — spurns around. 

Yet to the remnants of thy splendour past, 
Shall pilgrims, pensive, but unwearied throng ; 
Long shall the voyager, with the Ionian blast, 
Hail the bright clime of battle and of song ; 
Long shall thine annals and immortal tongue, 
Fill with thy fame the youth of many a shore : 
Boast of the aged, lesson of the young ! 
Which sages venerate, and bards adore, 
As Pallas and the Muse unveil their awful lore. 

The parted bosom clings to wonted home, 

If aught that's kindred cheer the welcome hearth: 

He that is lonely, hither let him roam, 

And gaze complacent on congenial earth. 



SELECTIONS IN VERSE. 99 

Greece is no lightsome land of social mirth : 
But he whom sadness sootheth may abide, 
And scarce regret the region of his birth, 
When wandering slow by Delphi's sacred side, 
Or gazing o'er the plains where Greek and Persian died. 

Byron. 



THE PLEASURES OF HOPE. 

Cease, every joy, to glimmer on my mind, 

But leave, O leave, the light of Hope behind ! 

What though my winged hours of bliss have been, 

Like angel's visits, few and far between ? 

Her musing mood shall every pang appease, 

And charm, when pleasures lose the power to please. 

But why so short is Love's delighted hour ? 

Why fades the dew on Beauty's sweetest flower ? 

Why can no hymned charm of music heal 

The sleepless woes impassioned spirits feel ? 

Can Fancy's fairy hands no veil create, 

To hide the sad realities of Fate ? 

No ! not the quaint remark, the sapient rule 
Nor all the pride of Wisdom's worldly school, 
Have power to soothe, unaided and alone, 
The heart that vibrates to a feeling tone ! 
When step-dame Nature every bliss recalls, 
Fleet as the meteor o'er the desert falls ; 
When 'reft of all, yon widowed sire appears 
A lonely hermit in the vale of years ; 
Say, can the world one joyous thought bestow 
To Friendship weeping at the couch of Woe ? 

No ! but a brighter soothes the last adieu ; 
Souls of impassioned mould, she speaks to you ! 
" Weep not," she says, at " Nature's transient pain, 
" Congenial spirits part to meet again ! 
" What plaintive sobs thy filial spirit drew ; 
" What sorrow choked thy long and last adieu ! 
" Daughter of Conrad ! When he heard his knell, 
" And bade his country and his child farewell ; 
" Doom'd the long isles of Sydney-cove to see, 
" The martyr of his crimes, but true to thee ! 



100 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

" Thrice the sad father tore thee from his heart, 

" And thrice returned to bless thee, and to part ; 

" Thrice from his trembling lips he murmured low, 

" The plaint that owned unutterable woe ; 

" Till Faith prevailing o'er his sullen doom, 

'* As bursts the morn on night's unfathomed gloom, 

" Lured his dim eye to deathless hopes sublime, 

" Beyond the realms of Nature and of Time ! 

" And weep not thus," he cried, " young Ellenore, 

", My bosom bleeds, but soon shall bleed no more ! 

" Short shall this half- extinguished spirit burn, 

" And soon these limbs to kindred dust return ! 

" But not, my child, with life's precarious fire, 

" The immortal ties of nature shall expire ; 

" These shall resist the triumph of decay, 

" When time is o'er and worlds have passed away ! 

" Cold in the dust this perished heart may lie, 

(f But that which warmed it once shall never die! 

" That spark, unburied in its mortal frame, 

" With living light, eternal, and the same, 

" Shall beam on joy's interminable years, 

" Unveiled by darkness, unassuaged by tears ! 

" Farewell ! When strangers lift thy father's bier, 
'' And place my nameless stone without a tear; 
" When each returning pledge hath told my child, 
" That Conrad's tomb is on the desert piled; 
" And when the dream of troubled Fancy sees 
" Its lonely rank grass waving in the breeze ; 
" Who then will soothe thy grief, when mine is o'er? 
" Who will protect thee, helpless Ellenore? 
" Shall secret scenes thy filial sorrows hide, 
" Scorned by the world, to factious guilt allied ? 
" Ah, no ! methinks the generous and the good 
" Will woo thee from the shades of solitude ! 
" O'er friendless grief, Compassion shall awake, 
" And smile on Innocence for Mercy's sake ! 

" Inspiring thought of rapture yet to be, 
" The tears of Love were hopeless, but for thee ! 
" If in that frame no deathless spirit dwell, 
" If that faint murmur be the last farewell, 
" If Fate unite the faithful but to part, 
" Why is their memory sacred to the heart ? 



SELECTIONS IN VERSE. 101 

" Why does the brother of my childhood seem 

" Restored awhile in every pleasing dream ? 

" "Why do I joy the lonely spot to view, 

" By artless friendship blessed when life was new ?" 

Eternal Hope ! when yonder spheres sublime, 
Pealed their first notes to sound the march of Time, 
Thy joyous youth began — but not to fade ! 
When all the sister planets have decayed ; 
When wrapt in fire the realms of ether glow, 
And Heaven's last thunder shakes the world below. 
Thou, undismayed, shalt o'er the ruins smile, 
And light thy torch at Nature's funeral pile ! 

Campbell. 



THE PROSPECT OF IMMORTALITY. 

Unfading Hope ! when life's last embers burn, 
When soul to soul, and dust to dust, return ; 
Heaven to thy charge resigns the awful hour : 
O then thy kingdom comes — Immortal Power ! , 

What though each spark of earth-born rapture fly, 
The quivering lip, pale cheek, and closing eye ! 
Bright to the soul thy seraph hands convey 
The morning dream of life's eternal day : — 
Then — then, the triumph and the trance begin ! 
And all the phoenix spirit burns within ! 
O deep-enchanting prelude to repose ! 
The dawn of bliss ! the twilight of our woes ! 
Yet, half I hear the parting spirit sigh — 
It is a dread and awful thing to die ! 
Mysterious worlds, untravelled by the sun, 
Where Time's far-wandering tide has never run ! 
From your unfathomed shades, and viewless spheres, 
A warning comes, unheard by other ears : 
'Tis Heaven's commanding trumpet, long and loud, 
Like Sinai's thunder, pealing from the cloud ! 
While Nature hears, with terror-mingled trust, 
The shock that hurls her fabric to the dust ; 
And, like the trembling Hebrew, when he trod 
The roaring waves, and called upon his God, 



102 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST, 

With mortal terrors clouds immortal bliss, 
And shrieks, and hovers o'er the dark abyss. 

Daughter of Faith, awake ! arise ! illume 
The dread unknown, the chaos of the tomb ! 
Melt and dispel, ye spectre-doubts, that roll 
Cimmerian darkness o'er the parting soul ! 
Fly, like the moon-eyed herald of dismay, 
Chased on his night-steed by the star of day ! 
The strife is o'er, the pangs of nature close, 
And life's last rapture triumphs o'er her woes. 
Hark ! as the spirit eyes, with eagle gaze, 
The noon of Heaven, undazzled by the blaze, 
On heavenly winds that waft her to the sky, 
Float the sweet tones of star-born melody, 
Wild as that hallowed anthem sent to hail 
Bethlehem's shepherds in the lonely vale, 
When Jordan hushed his waves, and midnight still 
Watched on the holy towers of Zion hill ! 

Soul of the just, companion of the dead ! 
Where is thy home ? and whither art thou fled ? 

Back to its heavenly source thy being goes ; 
Swift as the comet wheels to whence he rose ; 
Doomed on his airy path awhile to burn, 
And doomed, like thee, to travel and return ; — 
Hark ! from the world's exploding centre driven, 
With sounds that shook the firmament of Heaven, 
Careers the fiery giant, fast and far, 
On bickering wheels and adamantine car ; 
From planet whirled to planet more remote, 
He visits realms beyond the reach of thought ; 
But wheeling homeward, when his course is run, 
Curbs the red yoke, and mingles with the sun. 
So hath the traveller of earth unfurled. 
Her trembling wings, emerging from the world ; 
And, o'er the path by mortal never trod, 
Sprung to her source — the bosom of her God ! 

Campbell. 



103 



THE SPANISH ARMADA. 

Clear shone the morn, the gale was fair, 
When from Corunna's crowded port, 
With many a cheerful shout and loud acclaim, 
The huge Armada pass'd. 

To England's shores their streamers point, 
To England's shores their sails are spread; 
They go to triumph o'er the sea-girt land, 
And Rome has blest their arms. 

Along the ocean's echoing verge, 

Along the mountain range of rocks, 

The clustering multitudes behold their pomp, 

And raise the votive prayer. 

Commingling with the ocean's roar, 
Ceaseless and hoarse their murmurs rise, 
And soon they trust to see the winged bark 
That bears good tidings home. 

The watch-tower now in distance sinks, 
And now Galicia's mountain-rocks 
Faint as the far-off clouds of evening lie, 
And now they fade away. 

Each, like some moving citadel, 
On through the waves they sail sublime ; 
And now the Spaniards see the silvery cliffs, 
Behold the sea-girt land ! 

O fools, to think that ever foe 
Should triumph o'er that sea-girt land ! 
O fools, to think that ever Britain's sons 
Should wear the stranger's yoke 1 

For not in vain hath Nature rear'd ' 
Around her coast those silvery cliffs ; 
For not in vain old Ocean spreads his waves 
To guard his favourite isle ! 



104 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

On come her gallant mariners ! 
What now avail Rome's boasted charms ? 
Where are the Spaniard's vaunts of eager wrath ? 
His hopes of conquest now ? 

And hark ! the angry winds arise, 

Old Ocean heaves his angry waves ; 

The winds and waves against the invaders fight, 

To guard the sea-girt land. 

Howling around his palace-towers, 
The Spanish despot hears the storm ; 
He thinks upon his navies far away, 
And boding doubts arise. 

Long over Biscay's boisterous surge, 

The watchman's aching eye shall strain ; 

Long shall he gaze, but never winged bark 

Shall bear good tidings home. Southey. 



THE SURGEON'S TALE. 

T'was on a dark December evening ; 

Loud the blast, and bitter cold ; 
Downward came the whirling waters, 

Deep and black the river roll'd. 
Not a dog beneath the tempest, 

Not a beggar on his beat ; 
Wind and rain, and cold and darkness, 

Swept through every desert street. 

Muffled to the teeth that evening, 

I was struggling in the storm, 
Through pestilent lanes and hungry alleys 

Suddenly, — an ancient form 
Peer'd from out a gloomy doorway, 

And with trembling croak it said, — 
"In the left-hand empty garret 

*' You will find a woman dead. 



SELECTIONS IN VERSE. 105 

" Never stepped a finer creature, 

" When she was a simple maid ; 
" But she did, like many others, 

" Loved a man and was betrayed, 
" I have seen her in her carriage, 

" Diamonds flaming in her hair ; 
"And I've seen her starving (starving — 

" Do you hear?) and now she's there." 

Up the worn and slippery stair 

With a quicken' d pulse I sprung ; 
Famine, Filth, and mean Despair, 

Round about the darkness hung; 
No kind vision met my glances ; 

Friend or helper of the poor ; 
So the crazy room I entered 

And look'd down upon the floor. r 

There on the rough and naked boards, 

A long, gaunt, wasted figure lay, 
Murder'd in its youth by hunger ; 

And all its beauties wrinkled clay. 
Life's poor wants had left her nothing; 

Clothes nor fuel — food nor bed : 
Nothing — save some ragged letters, 

Whereon lay the ghastly head. 



" Nothing !" — yet what more could Pity 

Crave for one about to die, 
Than sweet words from one she worshipped, 

(Sweet ! tho' every word a lie) ; 
In the morning of her pleasure, 

In the midnight of her pain, 
They were all her wealth, her comfort — 

Treasured — aye! and not in vain. 

And with her they now lie mouldering ; 

And a tale upon a stone 
Telleth where (to end the story), 

Love's poor outcast lies alone. 

F 5 



106 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Mourn not — for at length she sleepeth 

The soft slumber of the dead ; 
Resting on her loved love-letters, 

Last fit pillow for her head. 

Barry Cornwall. 



WILLIAM TELL'S SPEECH. 

Ye crags and peaks, I'm with you once again ! 

I hold to you the hands you first beheld, 

To show they still are free. Methinks I hear 

A spirit in your echoes answer me, 

And bid your tenant welcome to his home 

Again ! O sacred forms, how proud you look! 

How high you lift your heads into the sky! 

How huge you are ! how mighty, and how free ! 

Ye are the things that tower, that shine — whose smile 

Makes glad, whose frown is terrible ; whose forms, 

Robed, or unrobed, do all the impress wear 

Of awe divine ! Ye guards of liberty, 

I'm with you once again ! I call to you 

"With all my voice! I hold my hands to you, 

To show they still are free. I rush to you 

As though I could embrace ! 

Scaling yonder peak, 
I saw an eagle wheeling near its brow, 
O'er the abyss. His broad expanded wings 
Lay calm and motionless upon the air, 
As if he floated there without their aid, 
By the sole act of his unlorded will, 
That buoyed him proudly up ! Instinctively 
I bent my bow ; yet kept he rounding still 
His aery circle, as in the delight 
Of measuring the ample range beneath ; 
And round about, absorbed, he heeded not 
The death that threatened him ! I couldn't shoot! 
'Twas liberty ! I turn'd my bow aside 
And let him soar away. 



SELECTIONS IN VERSE, 107 

When I wedded thee, 
The land was free ! O with what pride I used 
To walk these hills, and look up to my God, 
And bless him that it was so ! It was free ! 
From end to end, from cliff to lake, 'twas free ! — 
Free as our torrents are, that leap our rocks, 
And plough our valleys without asking leave ; 
Or as our peaks, that wear their caps of snow 
In very presence of the regal sun ! 
How happy was I in it then ! I loved 
Its very storms ! Yes, Emma, I have sat 
In my boat, at night, when down the mountain gorge 
The wind came roaring — sat in it, and eyed 
The thunder breaking from his cloud, and smiled 
To see him shake his lightnings o'er my head, 
And think I had no master, save his own ! 
You know the jutting cliff, round which a track 
Up hither winds, whose base is but the brow 
To such another one? O'ertaken there 
By the mountain -blast, I've laid me flat along ; 
And while gust followed gust more furiously, 
As if 'twould sweep me o'er the horrid brink, 
And I have thought of other lands, whose storms 
Are summer-flaws to those of mine, and just 
Have wished me there. The thought that mine was free 
Has checked that wish ; and I have raised my head, 
And cried, in thraldom, to that furious wind, 
" Blow on !— This is the land of liberty !" 

Sheridan Knowles. 



SELECTIONS IN PROSE, 



ANCIENT OKATORY. 
C. MARIUS TO THE ROMANS, 

ON THEIR HESITATING TO APPOINT HIM GENERAL IN THE 
EXPEDITION AGAINST JUGURTHA, MERELY ON ACCOUNT 
OF HIS EXTRACTION. 

It is but too common, my countrymen, to observe a 
material difference between the behaviour of those "who 
stand candidates for places of power and trust, before and 
after their obtaining them. They solicit them in one 
manner and execute them in another. They set out with 
a great appearance of activity, humility, and moderation ; 
and they quickly fall into sloth, pride, and avarice. It is, 
undoubtedly, no easy matter to discharge, to the general 
satisfaction, the duty of a supreme commander in trouble- 
some times. I am, I hope, duly sensible of the import- 
ance of the office I propose to take upon me, for the 
service of my country. To carry on, with effect, an ex- 
pensive war, and yet be frugal of the public money — to 
oblige those to serve, whom it may be delicate to offend — 
to conduct, at the same time, a complicated variety of 
operations — to concert measures at home answerable to 
the state of things abroad — and to gain every valuable end, 
in spite of opposition from the envious, the factious, and 
the disaffected — to do all this, my countrymen, is more 
difficult than is generally thought. And, beside the dis- 
advantages which are common to me, with all others, in 
eminent stations, my case is, in this respect, peculiarly 
hard ; that, whereas a commander of patrician rank, if he 
is guilty of a neglect, or breach of duty, has his great 
connexions— the antiquity of his family — the important 
services of his ancestors — and the multitudes he has by 
power engaged in his interest — to screen him from con- 
dign punishment ; my whole safety depends upon myself, 
which renders it the more indispensably necessary for me 



SELECTIONS IN VERSE. 109 

to take care that my conduct be clear and unexceptionable. 
Besides, I am well aware, my countrymen, that the eye of 
the public is upon me : and that, though the impartial, 
who prefer the real advantages of the commonwealth to all 
other considerations, favour my pretensions, the patricians 
want nothing so much as an occasion against me. It is, 
therefore, my fixed resolution to use my best endeavours, 
that you be not disappointed in me, and that their indirect 
designs against me may be defeated. I have, from my 
youth, been familiar with toils and with dangers. I was 
faithful to your interest, my countrymen, when I served 
you for no reward but that of honour. It is not my design 
to betray you, now that you have conferred upon me a 
place of profit. You have committed to my conduct the 
war against Jugurtha. The patricians are offended at this. 
But where would be the wisdom of giving such a command 
to one of their honourable body — a person of illustrious 
birth, of ancient family, of innumerable statues, but of no 
experience ? What service would his long line of dead 
ancestors, or his multitude of motionless statues, do his 
country in the day of battle ? What could such a general 
do, but, in his trepidation and inexperience, have recourse 
to some inferior commander for direction in difficulties, to 
which he was not himself equal ? Thus your patrician 
general would, in fact, have a general over him ; so that 
the acting commander w T ould still be a plebeian. So -true 
is this, my countrymen, that I have myself known those 
who have been chosen consuls begin then to read the 
history of their own country, of which, till that time, they 
were totally ignorant ; that is, they first obtained the em- 
ployment, and then bethought themselves of the qualifi- 
cations necessary for the proper discharge of it. I submit 
to your judgment, Romans, on which side the advantage 
lies, when a comparison is made between patrician haughti- 
ness and plebeian experience. The very actions, which 
they have only read, I have partly seen, and partly myself 
achieved. What they know by reading I know by action. 
They are pleased to slight my mean birth. I despise their 
mean characters. Want of birth and fortune is the ob- 
jection against me : want of personal wealth, against them. 
But are not all men of the same species? What can 



110 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

make a difference between one man and another, but the 
endowments of the mind ? For my part, I shall always look 
upon the bravest man as the noblest man. Suppose it 
were inquired of the fathers of such patricians as Albinus 
and Bestia, whether, if they had their choice, they would 
desire sons of their character, or of mine ; what would 
they answer, but that they should wish the worthiest to be 
their sons ? If the patricians have reason to despise me, 
let them likewise despise their ancestors, whose nobility 
was the fruit of their virtue. Do they envy the honours 
bestowed upon me ? Let them envy, likewise, my labours, 
my abstinence, and the dangers I have undergone for my 
country, by which I have acquired them. But those 
worthless men lead such a life of inactivity, as if they 
despised any honours you can bestow, while they aspire to 
honours as if they had deserved them by the most indus- 
trious virtue. They arrogate the rewards of activity, for 
their having enjoyed the pleasures of luxury. Yet none 
can be more lavish than they are in praise of their 
ancestors ; and they imagine they honour themselves by 
celebrating their forefathers, whereas, they do the very 
contrary. For, as much as their ancestors were distin- 
guished for their virtues, so much are they disgraced by 
their vices. The glory of ancestors casts a light, indeed, 
upon their posterity ; but it only serves to show what the 
descendants are. It alike exhibits to public view their 
degeneracy, and their worth. I own I cannot boast of the 
deeds of my forefathers ; but I hope I may answer the 
cavils of the patricians, by standing up in defence of what 
I have myself done. Observe now, my countrymen, the 
injustice of the patricians. They arrogate to themselves 
honours on account of the exploits done by their fore- 
fathers, while they will not allow me the due praise for 
performing the very same sorts of actions in my own person. 
He has no statues, they cry, of his family. He can trace 
no venerable line of ancestors. What then ! Is it matter 
of more praise to disgrace our illustrious ancestors, than to 
become illustrious by our own good behaviour ? What if 
I can show no statues of my family ! I can show the 
standards, the armour, and the trappings, which I have 
myself taken from the vanquished ; I can show the scars 



SELECTIONS IN PROSE. Ill 

of those wounds which I have received by facing the 
enemies of my country. These are my statues. These 
are the honours I boast of; not left me by inheritance, as 
theirs, but earned by toil, by abstinence, by valour, amidst 
clouds of dust and seas of blood — scenes of action, where 
those effeminate patricians, who endeavour, by indirect 
means, to depreciate me in your esteem, have never dared 
to show their faces. 



GALGACUS TO THE CALEDONII, 

TO INCITE THEM TO ACTION AGAINST THE ROMANS. 

When I reflect on the causes of the war, and the circum- 
stances of our situation, I feel a strong persuasion, that our 
united efforts on the present day will prove the beginning 
of universal liberty to Britain. For none of us are hitherto 
debased by slavery ; and we have no prospect of a secure 
retreat behind us, either by land or sea, while the Roman 
fleet hovers around. Thus the use of arms, which is at all 
times honourable to the brave, here offers the only safety 
even to cowards. In all the battles which have yet been 
fought with various success against the Romans, the re- 
sources of hope and aid were in our hands ; for we, the 
noblest inhabitants of Britain, and therefore stationed in 
its deepest recesses, far from the view of servile shores, 
have preserved even our eyes unpolluted by the contact of 
subjection. We, at the farthest limits both of land and 
liberty, have been defended to this day by the obscurity of 
our situation, and of our fame. The extremity of Britain 
is now disclosed ; and whatever is unknown becomes an 
object of importance. But there is no nation beyond us, 
nothing but waves and rocks ; and the Romans are before 
us. The arrogance of these invaders it will be in vain to 
encounter by obsequiousness and submission. These plun- 
derers of the world, after exhausting the land by their 
devastations, are rifling the ocean ; stimulated by avarice, if 
their enemy be rich ; by ambition, if poor ; unsatiated by the 
East and by the West ; the only people who behold wealth 
and indigence with equal avidity. To ravage, to slaughter, 



112 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

to usurp under false titles, they call Empire ; and when they 
make a desert, they call it Peace. 

Our children and relations are, by the appointment of 
Nature, rendered the dearest of all things to us. These 
are torn away by levies to foreign servitude. Our wives 
and sisters, though they should escape the violation of 
hostile force, are polluted under the names of friendship 
and hospitality. Our estates and possessions are consumed 
in tributes ; our grain in contributions. Even the powers 
of our bodies are worn down, amid stripes and insults, in 
clearing woods and draining marshes. Wretches, born to 
slavery, are first bought, and afterwards fed by their 
masters. Britain continually buys, continually feeds her 
own servitude. And, as among domestic slaves, every new 
comer serves for the scorn and derision of his fellows, so, 
in this ancient household of the world, we, as the last and 
vilest, are sought out for destruction. For we have neither 
cultivated lands, nor mines, nor harbours, which can induce 
them to preserve us for our labours ; and our valour and 
unsubmitting spirit will only render us more obnoxious to 
our imperious masters; while the very remoteness and 
secresy of our situation, in proportion as it conduces to 
security, will tend to inspire suspicion. Since, then, all 
hopes of forgiveness are vain, let those, at length, assume 
courage to whom glory, to whom safety is dear. The 
Brigantines, even under a female leader, had force enough 
to burn the enemy's settlements, to storm their camps ; 
and if success had not introduced negligence and inactivity, 
would have been able entirely to throw off the yoke. And 
shall not we, untouched, unsubdued, and struggling not for 
the acquisition, but the continuance of liberty, declare, at 
the very first onset, what kind of men Caledonia has re- 
served for her defence ? 

Can you imagine that the Romans are as brave in war 
as they are as insolent in peace ? Acquiring renown from 
our discords and dissensions, they convert the errors of 
their enemies to the glory of their own army — an army 
compounded of the most different nations, which, as success 
alone has kept together, misfortune will certainly dissipate. 
Unless, indeed, you can suppose that Gauls, and Germans, 
and (I blush to say it) even Britons, lavishing their blood 



SELECTIONS IN PROSE. 113 

for a foreign state, to which they have been longer foes 
than subjects, will be retained by loyalty and affection. 
Terror and dread alone, weak bonds of attachment, are 
the ties by which they are restrained ; and when these 
are once broken, those who cease to fear will begin to hate. 
Every incitement to victory is on our side. The Romans 
have no wives to animate them, no parents to upbraid 
their flight. Most of them have either no habitation, or a 
distant one. Few in number, ignorant of the country, 
looking around in silent horror at the woods, seas, and a 
haven itself unknown to them, they are delivered by the 
gods, as it were, imprisoned and bound, into our hands. 
Be not terrified with an idle show, and the glitter of 
silver and gold, which can neither protect nor wound. 
In the very ranks of the enemy we shall find our 
own bands. The Britons will acknowledge their own 
cause ; the Gauls will recollect their former liberty ; the 
Germans will desert them, as the Usipii have lately done. 
Nor is there anything formidable behind them : ungar- 
risoned forts, colonies of invalids, municipal towns dis- 
tempered and distracted, between unjust masters and ill- 
obeying subjects. Here is your general, here your army; 
there, tributes, mines, and all the train of servile punish- 
ments, which, whether to bear eternally, or instantly to 
revenge, this field must determine. March, then, to battle, 
and think of your ancestors and your posterity. 



HANNIBAL TO HIS SOLDIERS. 

I know not, soldiers, whether you or your prisoners be 
encompassed by fortune with the stricter bonds and neces- 
sities. Two seas enclose you on the right and left ; not a 
ship to flee to for escaping. Before you is the Po, a river 
broader and more rapid than the Rhone ; behind you are 
the Alps, over which, even when your numbers were un- 
diminished, you were hardly able to force a passage. Here, 
then, soldiers, you must either conquer or die, the very 
first hour you meet the enemy. But the same fortune, 



114 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

which has thus laid you under the necessity of fighting, 
has set before your eyes those rewards of victory, than 
which no man was ever wont to wish for greater from the 
immortal gods. Should we, by our valour, recover only 
Sicily and Sardinia, which were ravished from our fathers, 
these would be no inconsiderable prizes. Yet what are 
these ? The wealth of Rome, whatever riches she has 
heaped together in the spoils of nations, all these, with the 
masters of them, will be yours. You have been long 
enough employed in driving the cattle upon the vast moun- 
tains of Lusitania and Celtiberia — you have hitherto met 
with no reward worthy of the labours and dangers you 
have undergone. The time is now come, to reap the full 
recompense of your toilsome marches over so many moun- 
tains and rivers, and through so many nations, all of them 
in arms. This is the place which fortune has appointed to 
be the limits of your labours ; it is here that you will finish 
your glorious warfare, and receive an ample recompense of 
your completed service. For I would not have you imagine 
that victory will be as difficult as the name of a Roman 
war is great and sounding. It has often happened that a 
despised enemy has given a bloody battle, and the most 
renowned kings and nations have by a small force been 
overthrown. And if you but take away the glitter of the 
Roman name, what is there wherein they may stand in 
competition with you? For (to say nothing of your service 
in war for twenty years together, with so much valour and 
success) from the very pillars of Hercules, from the ocean, 
from the utmost bounds of the earth, through so many 
warlike nations of Spain and Gaul, are you not come 
hither victorious? And with whom are you now to 
fight ? With raw soldiers, an undisciplined army, beaten, 
vanquished, besieged by the Gauls the very last summer, 
an army unknown to their leader, and unacquainted with 
him. 

Or shall I, who was born, I might almost say, but cer- 
tainly brought up, in the tent of my father, that most 
excellent general — shall I, the conqueror of Spain and 
Gaul, and not only of the Alpine nations, but, which is 
greater yet, of the Alps themselves — shall I compare 
myself with this half-year captain — a captain, before whom 



SELECTIONS IN PROSE. 115 

should one place the two armies without their ensigns, I 
am persuaded he would not know to which of them he is 
consul? I esteem it no small advantage, soldiers, that 
there is not one among you who has not often been an 
eye-witness of my exploits in war — not one, of whose 
valour I myself have not been a spectator, so as to be able 
to name the times and places of his noble achievements ; 
that with soldiers, whom I have a thousand times praised 
and rewarded, and whose pupil I was before I became their 
general, I shall march against an army of men, strangers 
to one another. 

On what side soever I turn my eyes, I behold all full of 
courage and strength ; a veteran infantry ; a most gallant 
cavalry ; you, my allies, most faithful and valiant ; you, 
Carthaginians, whom not only your country's cause, but 
the justest anger impels to battle. The hope, the courage 
of assailants is always greater than those who act upon the 
defensive. With hostile banners displayed, you are come 
down upon Italy ; you bring the war. Grief, injuries, in- 
dignities fire your minds, and spur you forward to revenge ! 
First they demanded me — that I, your general, should be 
delivered up to them ; next all of you, who had fought at 
the siege of Saguntum ; and we were to be put to death 
by the extremest tortures. Proud and cruel nation ! 
Everything must be yours, and at your disposal ! You 
are to prescribe to us with whom we shall make war, with 
whom we shall make peace ! You are to set us bounds, 
to shut us up within hills and rivers ; but you — you are not 
to observe the limits which yourselves have fixed. Pass 
not the Iberus. What next ? Touch not the Saguntines ; 
is Saguntum upon the Iberus ? Move not a step toward that 
city. Is it a small matter, then, that you have deprived us 
of our ancient possessions, Sicily and Sardinia; you would 
have Spain too ? Well, we shall yield Spain ! and then — 
you will pass into Africa. Will pass, did I say? This 
very year they ordered one of their consuls into Africa, 
the other into Spain. No, soldiers, there is nothing left 
for us but what we can vindicate with our swords. Come 
on, then. Be men. The Romans may with more safety 
be cowards : they have their own country behind them, 
have places of refuge to flee to, and are secure from danger 



116 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

in the roads thither ; but for you there is no middle fortune 
between death and victory. Let this be but well fixed in 
your minds, and once again, I say, you are conquerors. 



JUNIUS BRUTUS OVER THE DEAD BODY 
OF LUCRETIA. 

Yes, noble lady ! I swear by this blood, which was once so 
pure, and which nothing but royal villany could have pol- 
luted, that I will pursue Lucius Tarquinius the proud, his 
wicked wife, and their children, with fire and sword ; nor 
will I ever suffer any of that family, or of any other whatso- 
ever, to be king in Rome. Ye gods, I call you to witness 
this my oath ! There, Romans, turn your eyes to that sad 
spectacle — the daughter of Lucretius, Collatinus' wife — 
she died by her own hand. 

See there a noble lady, whom the lust of a Tarquin 
reduced to the necessity of being her own executioner, to 
attest her innocence ! Hospitably entertained by her as a 
kinsman of her husband's, Sextus, the perfidious guest, 
became her brutal ravisher. The chaste, the generous 
Lucretia could not survive the insult. Glorious woman ! 
but once only treated as a slave, she thought life no longer 
to be endured. Lucretia, a woman, disdained a life that 
depended on a tyrant's will ; and shall we, shall men, with 
such an example before our eyes, and after five- and- twenty 
years of ignominious servitude, shall we, through a fear of 
dying, defer one single instant to assert our liberty ? No, 
Romans, now is the time ; the favourable moment we have 
so long waited for is come. Tarquin is not at Rome. 
The patricians are at the head of the enterprise. The city 
is abundantly provided with men, arms, and all things 
necessary. There is nothing wanting to secure the success, 
if our own courage do not fail us. Can all these warriors, 
who have ever been so brave when foreign enemies were to 
be subdued, or when conquests were to be made to gratify 
the ambition and avarice of Tarquin, be then only cowards 
when they are to deliver themselves from slavery ? 
Some of you are perhaps intimidated by the army which 
Tarquin now commands. The soldiers, you imagine, will 



SELECTIONS IN PROSE. 117 

take the part of their general. Banish so groundless a fear. 
The love of liberty is natural to all men. Your fellow -citi- 
zens in the camp feel the weight of oppression with as 
quick a sense as you that are in Rome: they will as eagerly 
seize the occasion of throwing off the yoke. But let us 
grant that there may be some among them who, through 
baseness of spirit or a bad education, will be disposed to 
to favour the tyrant, the number of these can be but small, 
and we have means sufficient in our hands to reduce them 
to reason. They have left us hostages more dear to them 
than life : their wives, their children, their fathers, their 
mothers, are here in the city. Courage, Romans ! The gods 
are for us — those gods, whose temples and altars the im- 
pious Tarquin has profaned with sacrifices and libations 
made with polluted hands — polluted with blood, and with 
numberless unexpiated crimes committed against his sub- 
jects. Ye gods, who protected our forefathers, ye genii, 
who watch for the preservation and glory of Rome, do you 
inspire us with courage and unanimity in this glorious cause ! 
and we will, to our last breath, defend your worship from 
profanation ! 



ORATION AGAINST CATILINE. 

Catiline, how far art thou to abuse our forbearance ? 
How long are we to be deluded by the mockery of thy 
madness ? Where art thou to stop, in this career of un- 
bridled licentiousness ? Has the nightly guard at the 
Palatium nothing in it to alarm you ; the patrols through- 
out the city, nothing ; the confusion of the people, nothing ; 
the assemblage of all true lovers of their country, nothing ; 
the guarded majesty of this assembly, nothing ; and all 
the eyes that at this instant are rivetted upon yours — have 
they nothing to denounce, nor you to apprehend ? Does 
not your conscience inform you, that the sun shines upon 
your secrets ? And do you not discover a full knowledge of 
your conspiracy, revealed on the countenance of every man 
around you ? Your employment on the last night — your 
occupations on the preceding night — the place where you 
met — the persons who met — and the plot fabricated at the 



118 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

meeting: — of these things, I ask not, who knows; I ask, 
who, among you all, is ignorant ? 

But, alas ! for the times thus corrupted ; or, rather, for 
mankind, who thus corrupt the times ! The senate knows 
all this ! The consul sees all this ! And yet the man who 
sits there — lives. Lives ! Aye — comes down to your 
senate-house ; takes his seat as councillor for the common- 
wealth ; and with a deliberate destiny in his eye, marks 
out our members, and selects them for slaughter; while 
for us, and for our country, it seems glory sufficient to 
escape from his fury — to find an asylum from his sword. 

There has — yes, there has been, and lately been, a vin- 
dicatory virtue, an avenging spirit in this republic, that 
never failed to inflict speedier and heavier vengeance on a 
noxious citizen than on a national foe. Against you, 
Catiline, and for your immediate condemnation, what, 
therefore, is wanting ? Not the grave sanction of the 
senate — not the voice of the country — not ancient prece- 
dents—not living law. But we are wanting — I say it 
more loudly — we, the consuls ourselves. 

When the senate committed the republic into the hands 
of the consul, L. Opimius, did presumptive sedition palliate 
the punishment of Caius Gracchus ? Or could his luminous 
line of ancestry yield even a momentary protection to his 
person ? Was the vengeance of the executive power on 
the consular Fulvius and his children arrested for a single 
night ? When similar power was delegated to the consuls, 
C. Marius and L. Valerius, were the lives which the praetor 
Servilius, and the tribune Saturninus, had forfeited to their 
country, prolonged for a single day ? But, now, twenty 
days and nights have blunted the edge of our axes and 
our authorities. Our sharp-pointed decree sleeps, sheathed 
in the record — that very decree which, a moment after its 
promulgation, was not to find you a living man. You do 
live, and live not in the humiliating depression of guilt, 
but in the exultation and triumph of insolence. Mercy, 
conscript fathers, is my dearest delight, as the vindication 
of the constitution is my best ambition ; but I now stand 
self- condemned of guilt in mercy, and I own it as a 
treachery against the state. 

Conscript fathers, a camp is pitched against the Roman 



SELECTIONS IN PROSE. 119 

republic within Italy, on the very borders of Etruria. 
Every day adds to the number of the enemy. The leader 
of those enemies, the commander of that encampment, 
walks within the walls of Rome, takes his seat in this 
senate, the heart of Rome ; and with venomous mis- 
chief, rankles in the inmost vitals of the commonwealth. 
Catiline, should I, on the instant, order my lictors to seize 
and drag you to the stake, some men might, even then, 
blame me for having procrastinated punishment; but no 
man could criminate me for a faithful execution of the laws. 
They shall be executed. But I will neither act, nor will I 
suffer, without full and sufficient reason. Trust me, they 
shall be executed ; and then, even then, when there shall 
not be found a man so flagitious, so much a Catiline, as 
to say, you were not ripe for execution. 

Was not the night before the last sufficient to convince 
you, that there is a good genius protecting that republic, 
which a ferocious demoniac is labouring to destroy ? I 
aver, that on that same night, you and your complotters 
assembled in the house of M. Lceca. Can even your own 
tongue deny it ? Yet secret ! Speak out, man ; for if you 
do not, there are some I see around me who shall have an 
agonising proof that I am true in my assertion. 

Good and great gods, where are we ? What city do we 
inhabit ? Under what government do we live ? Here — 
here, conscript fathers, mixed and mingled with us all — 
in the centre of this most grave and venerable assembly — 
are men sitting, quietly incubating a plot against my life, 
against all your lives — the life of every virtuous senator 
and citizen ; while I, with the whole nest of traitors 
brooding beneath my eyes, am parading in the petty for- 
malities of debate ; and the very men appear scarcely 
vulnerable by my voice, who ought long since to have been 
cut down with the sword. Proceed, Catiline, in your 
honourable career. Go where your destiny and your 
desire are driving you. Evacuate the city for a season. 
The gates stand open. Begone ! What a shame that the 
Manlian army should look out so long for their general ! 
Take all your loving friends along with you ; or if that be 
a vain hope, take, at least, as many as you can, and cleanse 
the city for some short time. Let the walls of Rome be 



120 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

the mediators between me and thee ; for, at present, you 
are much too near me. I will not suffer you, I will not 
longer undergo you. 

Lucius Catiline, away ! Begin as soon as you are able 
this shameful and unnatural war. Begin it, on your part, 
under the shade of every dreadful omen ; on mine, with 
the sure and certain hope of safety to my country, and 
glory to myself : and, when this you have done, then, do 
Thou, whose altar was first founded by the founder of our 
state — Thou, the establisher of this city, pour out thy ven- 
geance upon this man, and all his adherents. Save us 
from his fury ; our public altars, our sacred temples, our 
houses, and household gods, our liberties, our lives. Pursue, 
tutelar god, pursue them, these foes to the gods and good- 
ness — these plunderers of Italy — these assassins of Rome. 
Erase them out of this life ; and in the next let thy ven- 
geance pursue them, insatiable, implacable, immortal ! 



ORATION AGAINST VERRES. 

The time is come, fathers, when that which has long been 
wished for, towards allaying the envy your order has been 
subject to, and removing the imputations against trials, is 
(not by human contrivance, but superior direction) effec- 
tually put in our power. An opinion has long prevailed, 
not only here at home, but likewise in foreign countries, 
both dangerous to you and pernicious to the state, namely : 
" that in prosecutions, men of wealth are always safe, how- 
ever clearly convicted." There is now to be brought upon 
his trial before you, to the confusion, I hope, of the propa- 
gators of this slanderous imputation, one, whose life and 
actions condemn him in the opinion of all impartial persons j 
but who, according to his own reckoning, and declared 
dependance upon his riches, is already acquitted ; I mean 
Caius Verres. I have undertaken this prosecution, fathers, 
at the general desire, and with the great expectation of the 
Roman people ; not that I might draw envy upon that 
illustrious order of which the accused happens to be, but 
with the direct design of clearing your justice and impar- 
tiality before the world. For I have brought upon his trial 



SELECTIONS IN PROSE. 121 

one whose conduct has been such, that, in passing a just 
sentence upon him, you will have an opportunity of re- 
establishing the credit of such trials ; of recovering what- 
ever may be lost of the favour of the Roman people ; and 
of satisfying foreign states and kingdoms in alliance with 
us, or tributary to us. I demand justice of you, fathers, 
upon the robber of the public treasury, the oppressor of 
Asia Minor and Pamphylia, the invader of the rights and 
privileges of Romans, the scourge and curse of Sicily. If 
that sentence is passed upon him which his crimes deserve, 
your authority, fathers, will be venerable and sacred in the 
eyes of the public. But if his great riches should bias you 
in his favour, I shall still gain one point, namely, to make 
it apparent to all the world that what was wanting in this 
case, was not a criminal nor a prosecutor ; but justice and 
adequate punishment. 

For as those acts of violence, by which he has got his 
exorbitant riches, were done openly, so have his attempts 
to pervert judgment, and escape due punishment, been 
public, and in open defiance of decency. He has accord- 
ingly said, that " the only time he ever was afraid, was 
when he found the prosecution commenced against him 
by me, lest he should not have time enough to dispose of 
a sufficient number of presents in proper hands." Nor 
has he attempted to secure himself by the legal way of 
defence upon his trial. And, indeed, where is the learning, 
the eloquence, or the art, which would be sufficient to 
qualify any one for the defence of him whose whole life has 
been a continued series of the most atrocious crimes ? To 
pass over the shameful irregularities of his youth, what 
does his qusestorship, the first public employment he held — 
what does it exhibit but one continued scene of villanies? 
Cneius Carbo plundered of the public money by his own 
treasurer; a consul stripped and betrayed; an army 
deserted, and reduced to want; a province robbed; the 
civil and religious rights of a people violated. The employ- 
ment he held in Asia Minor and Pamphylia, what did it 
produce, but the ruin of those countries, in which houses, 
cities, and temples, were robbed by him ? There he acted 
over again the scene of his qusestorship, bringing, by his 
bad practices, Cneius Dolabella, whose substitute he was, 

G 



122 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

into disgrace with the people, and then deserting him : 
not only deserting, but even accusing and betraying him. 
What was his conduct in his prsetorship here at home ? 
Let the plundered temples, and public works neglected, 
that he might embezzle the money intended for carrying 
them on, bear witness. How did he discharge the office of 
a judge ? Let those who suffered by his injustice answer. 
But his prsetorship in Sicily crowns all his works of wicked- 
ness, and furnishes a lasting monument to his infamy. The 
mischiefs done by him in that unhappy country during the 
three years of his iniquitous administration, are such, that 
many years, under the wisest and best of prsetors, will not 
be sufficient to restore things to the condition in which 
he found them. For it is notorious that during the time 
of his tyranny, the Sicilians neither enjoyed the protection of 
their own original laws, of the regulations made for their 
benefit by the Eoman senate, upon their coming under the 
protection of the commonwealth, nor of the natural and 
unalienable rights of men. No inhabitant of that ruined 
country has been able to keep possession of any thing, but 
what has either escaped the rapaciousness, or been neglected 
by the satiety, of that universal plunderer. His nod has 
decided all causes in Sicily for these three years. And his 
decisions have broken all law, all precedent, all right. The 
sums he has, by arbitrary taxes and unheard-of impositions, 
extorted from the industrious poor, are not to be computed. 
The most faithful allies of the commonwealth have been 
treated as enemies. Roman citizens have, like slaves, been 
put to death with tortures. The most atrocious criminals, 
for money, have been exempted from their deserved punish- 
ments ; and men of the most unexceptionable characters 
condemned and banished unheard. The harbours, though 
sufficiently fortified, and the gates of strong towns, opened 
to pirates and ravagers. The soldiers and sailors belonging 
to a province under the protection of the commonwealth, 
starved to death. "Whole fleets, to the great detriment of 
the province, suffered to perish. The ancient monuments 
of either Sicilian or Roman greatness, the statues of 
heroes and princes, carried off, and the temples stripped 
of their images. And these, his atrocious crimes, have 
been committed in so public a manner, that there is no 



SELECTIONS IN PROSE. 123 

one who has heard of his name but could reckon up his 
actions. 

Now, Verres, I ask what you have to advance against 
this charge ? Will you pretend to deny it ? Will you pre- 
tend that anything false — that even anything aggravated — 
is alleged against you ? Had any prince, or any state, 
committed the same outrage against the privilege of Roman 
citizens, should we not think we had sufficient ground for 
declaring immediate war against them ? What punishment 
ought, then, to be inflicted upon a tyrannical and wicked 
praetor, who dared, at no greater distance than Sicily, 
within sight of the Italian coast, to put to the infamous 
death of crucifixion, that unfortunate and innocent citizen, 
Publius Gavius Cosanus, only for his having asserted his 
privilege of citizenship, and declared his intention of appeal- 
ing to the justice of his country against a cruel oppressor, 
who had unjustly confined him in prison at Syracuse, from 
whence he had just made his escape ? The unhappy man, 
arrested as he was going to embark for his native 
country, is brought before the wicked praetor. With eyes 
darting fury, and a countenance distorted with cruelty, he 
orders the helpless victim of his rage to be stript, and rods 
to be brought, accusing him, but without the least shadow 
of evidence, or even of suspicion, of having come to Sicily as 
a spy. It was in vain that the unhappy man cried out, 
" I am a Roman citizen ; I have served under Lucius Pre- 
tius, who is now at Panormus, and will attest my innocence !" 
The blood-thirsty praetor, deaf to all he could urge in his 
own defence, ordered the infamous punishment to be 
inflicted. Thus, fathers, was an innocent Roman citizen 
publicly mangled with scourging, whilst the only words he 
uttered amidst his cruel sufferings were, " I am a Roman 
citizen!" With these he hoped to defend himself from 
violence and infamy. But of so little service was this 
privilege to him, that, while he was thus asserting his 
citizenship, the order was given for his execution — for his 
execution upon the cross ! 

O liberty ! O sound once delightful to every Roman ear ! 
O sacred privilege of Roman citizenship — once sacred, now 
trampled upon ! But what then ? Is it come to this ? 
Shall an inferior magistrate, a governor, who holds his 



124 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

whole power of the Roman people, in a Roman province, 
within sight of Italy, bind, scourge, torture with fire and 
red-hot plates of iron, and, at last, put to the infamous 
death of the cross, a Roman citizen .? Shall neither the 
cries of innocence expiring in agony, nor the tears of pitying 
spectators, nor the majesty of the Roman commonwealth, 
nor the fear of the justice of his country, restrain the 
licentious and wanton cruelty of a monster, who, in confi- 
dence of his riches, strikes at the root of liberty, and sets 
mankind at defiance ? 

I conclude with expressing my hopes that your wisdom 
and justice, fathers, will not, by suffering the atrocious and 
unexampled insolence of Caius Verres to escape the due 
punishment, leave room to apprehend the danger of a total 
subversion of authority, and introduction of general anarchy 
and confusion. 



SPEECH OF SCIPIO TO THE ROMAN ARMY. 

Were you, soldiers, the same army which I had with me 
in Gaul, I might well forbear saying anything to you at this 
time. For what occasion could there be to use exhortation 
to a cavalry that had so signally vanquished the squadrons 
of the enemy upon the Rhone — or to legions, by whom 
that same enemy, flying before them to avoid a battle, did, 
in effect, confess themselves conquered? But as these 
troops, having been enrolled for Spain, are there with my 
brother Cneius, making war under my auspices (as was the 
will of the senate and people of Rome), I, that you might 
have a consul for your captain against Hannibal and the 
Carthaginians, have freely offered myself for this war. 
You, then, have a new general, and I, a new army. On 
this account, a few words from me to you will be neither 
improper nor unseasonable. 

That you may not be unapprised of what sort of enemies 
you are going to encounter, or of what is to be feared from 
them, they are the very same, whom, in a former war, you 
vanquished both by land and sea ; the same from whom you 
took Sicily and Sardinia, and who have been these twenty 



SELECTIONS IN PROSE. 125 

years your tributaries. You will not, I presume, march 
against these men with only that courage with which you 
are wont to face other enemies, but with a certain anger 
and indignation, such as you would feel if you saw your 
slaves, on a sudden, rise up in arms against you. Con- 
quered and enslaved, it is not boldness, but necessity, that 
urges them to battle ; unless that you can believe that those, 
who avoided fighting when their army was entire, have ac- 
quired better hope by the loss of two -thirds of their horse 
and foot in the passage of the Alps. 

But you have heard, perhaps, that, though they are few 
in number, they are men of stout hearts and robust bodies 
— heroes of such strength and vigour, as nothing is able 
to resist. Mere effigies ! nay, shadows of men ! wretches 
emaciated with hunger, and benumbed with cold ! bruised 
and battered to pieces among the rocks and craggy cliffs ; 
their weapons broken, and their horses weak and foundered ! 
Such are the cavalry, and such the infantry, with which you 
are going to contend : not enemies, but the fragments of 
enemies. There is nothing which I more apprehend, than 
that it will be thought Hannibal was vanquished by the 
Alps, before we had any conflict with him. But, perhaps, 
it was fitting it should be so ; and that, with a people and 
a leader who had violated leagues and covenants, the gods 
themselves, without man's help, should begin the war, and 
bring it to a near conclusion ; and that we, who, next to the 
gods, have been injured and offended, should happily finish 
what they have begun. I need not be in any fear that you 
should suspect me of saying these things, merely to en- 
courage you, while inwardly I have different sentiments. 
What hindered me from going into Spain ? That was my 
province, where I should have had the less dreaded As- 
drubal, not Hannibal, to deal with. But hearing, as I 
passed along the coasts of Gaul, of this enemy's march, I 
landed my troops, sent the horse forward, and pitched my 
camp upon the Rhone. A part of- my cavalry encountered 
and defeated that of the enemy. My infantry not being 
able to overtake theirs, which fled before us, I returned to 
my fleet ; and, with all the expedition I could use in so 
long a voyage by sea and land, am come to meet them at 
the foot of the Alps. "Was it, then, my inclination to 



126 TttE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

avoid a contest with this tremendous Hannibal ? and have 
I met with him only by accident and unawares ? or am I 
come on purpose to challenge him to the combat ? I would 
gladly try whether the earth, within these twenty years, 
has brought forth a new kind of Carthaginians, or whether 
they be the same sort of men who fought at the JEgates, 
and whom, at Eryx, you suffered to redeem themselves at 
eighteen denarii per head — whether this Hannibal, for 
labours and journeys, be, as he would be thought, the rival 
of Hercules, or whether he be, what his father left him, a 
tributary, a vassal, a slave of the Roman people. Did not 
the consciousness of his wicked deed at Saguntum torment 
him, and make him desperate, he would have some regard, 
if not to his conquered country, yet surely to his own 
family, to his father's memory, to the treaty written with 
Amilcar's own hand. "We might have starved him at Eryx, 
we might have passed into Africa with our victorious fleet, 
and in a few days have destroyed Carthage. At their 
humble supplication, we pardoned them; we released them, 
when they were closely shut up, without a possibility of 
escaping ; we made peace with them, when they were con- 
quered. When they were distressed by the African war, 
we considered them, we treated them as a people under our 
protection. And what is the return they make us for all 
these favours ? Under the conduct of a hare-brained 
young man, they come hither to overturn our state, and 
lay waste our country. I could wish, indeed, that it were 
not so, and that the war we are now engaged in concerned 
only our glory, and not our preservation. But the contest 
at present is not for the possession of Sicily and Sardinia, 
but of Italy itself. Nor is there behind us another army, 
which, if we should not prove the conquerors, may make 
head against our victorious enemies. There are no more 
Alps for them to pass, which might give us leisure to raise 
new forces. No, soldiers ; here you must make your stand, 
as if you were just now before the walls of Rome. Let 
every one reflect that he is now to defend, not his own 
person only, but his wife, his children, his helpless infants, 
^et let not private considerations alone possess our minds. 
Let us remember that the eyes of the senate and people of 
Rome are upon us ; and that, as our force and courage 



SELECTIONS IN PROSE. 127 

shall now prove, such will be the fortune of that city, and 
of the Roman empire. 



SPEECH OF TITUS QUINTIUS TO THE ROMAN 
PEOPLE. 

Though I am not conscious, O Romans ! of any crime by me 
committed, it is yet with the utmost shame and confusion 
that [ appear in your assembly. You have seen it. Pos- 
terity will know it. In the fourth consulship of Titus 
Qumtius, the JEqui and Volsci (scarce a match for the 
Hernici alone), came in arms to the very gates of Rome, 
and went away again unchastised ! The course of our 
manners, indeed, and the state of our affairs, have long 
been such, that I had no reason to presage much good; but, 
could 1 have imagined that so great ignominy would have 
befallen me this year, I would by death or banishment (if 
all other means had failed) have avoided the station I am 
now in. What ! might Rome then have been taken, if 
those men who were at our gates had not wanted courage 
for the attempt ? Rome taken, while I was consul ! Of 
honours I had sufficient — of life, enough — more than 
enough. I should have died in my third consulate. But 
who are they, that our dastardly enemies thus despise? the 
consuls? or you, Romans? If we are in fault, depose us, 
punish us yet more severely. If you are to blame, may 
neither gods nor men punish your faults, only may you 
repent. No, Romans, the confidence of your enemies is not 
owing to their courage, or to their belief of your cowardice ; 
they have been too often vanquished, not to know both 
themselves and you. Discord — discord is the ruin of this 
city. The eternal disputes between the senate and the 
people are the sole cause of our misfortunes. While we 
will set no bounds to our domination, nor you to your 
liberty; while you impatiently endure patrician magistrates, 
and we plebeian ; our enemies take heart, grow elated and 
presumptuous. 

In the name of the immortal gods, what is it, Romans, 
you would have ? You desired tribunes ; for the sake of 
peace we granted them. You were eager to have decemvirs; 



128 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

we consented to their creation. You grew weary of these 
decemvirs ; we obliged them to abdicate. Your hatred 
pursued them when reduced to private men ; and we 
suffered you to put to death or banish patricians of the first 
rank in the republic. You insisted upon the restoration of 
the tribuneship ; we yielded ; we quietly saw consuls of 
your own faction elected. You have the protection of your 
tribunes, and the privilege of appeal ; the patricians are 
subjected to the decrees of the commons. Under the pre- 
tence of equal and impartial laws, you have invaded our 
rights, and we have suffered it ; and we still suffer it. 
When shall we see an end of discord? When shall we 
have one interest, and one common country? Victorious 
and triumphant, you show less temper than we under our 
defeat. When you are to contend with us, you can seize 
the Aventine Hill, you can possess yourselves of the Mons 
Sacer. The enemy is at our gates, the ^Esquiline is near 
being taken, and no body stirs to hinder it. But against 
us you are valiant, against us you can arm with all diligence. 
Come on, then, besiege the senate-house, make a camp of 
the forum, fill the gaols with all our chief nobles ; and, 
when you have achieved these glorious exploits, then at the 
least, sally out at the iEsquiline gate with the same fierce 
spirits against the enemy. Does your resolution fail you 
for this ? Go then, and behold from our walls your lands 
ravaged, your houses plundered and in flames, the whole 
country laid waste with fire and sword! Have you any- 
thing here to repair these damages ? Will the tribunes 
make up your losses to you ? They will give you words as 
many as you please ; bring impeachments in abundance 
against the prime men in the state ; heap laws upon laws; 
assemblies you shall have without end ; but will any of you 
return the richer from those assemblies? Extinguish, O 
Romans, these fatal divisions, generously break this cursed 
enchantment, which keeps you buried in a scandalous in- 
action. Open your eyes, and consider the management of 
those ambitious men, who, to make themselves powerful in 
their party, study nothing but how they may foment divi- 
sions in the commonwealth. If you can but summon up 
your former courage, if you will now march out of Rome 
with your consuls, there is no punishment you can inflict 



SELECTIONS IN PROSE. 129 

which I will not submit to, if I do not in a few days drive 
those pillagers out of our territory. This terror of war, 
with which you seem so grievously struck, shall quickly be 
removed from Rome to their own cities. 



THE SCYTHIAN AMBASSADOR TO ALEXANDER. 

If your person were as gigantic as your desires, the world 
would not contain you. Your right hand would touch the 
east, and your left the west, at the same time. You grasp 
at more than you are equal to. From Europe you reach 
Asia ; from Asia you lay hold on Europe. And if you 
should conquer all mankind, you seem disposed to wage 
war with woods and snows, with rivers and wild beasts, 
and to attempt to subdue nature. But have you considered 
the usual course of things ? Have you reflected, that great 
trees are many years in growing to their height, and are 
cut down in an hour. It is foolish to think of the fruit only, 
without considering the height you have to climb to come 
at it. Take care, lest while you strive to reach the top, 
you fall to the ground with the branches you have laid 
hold on. The lion, when dead, is devoured by ravens; 
and rust consumes the hardness of iron. There is nothing 
so strong but it is in danger from what is weak. It will 
therefore be your wisdom to take care how you venture 
beyond your reach. Besides, what have you to do with the 
Scythians, or the Scythians with you ? We have never 
invaded Macedon : why should you attack Scythia ? We 
inhabit vast deserts, and pathless woods, where we do not 
want to hear of the name of Alexander. We are not dis- 
posed to submit to slavery, and we have no ambition to 
tyrannize over any nation. That you may understand the 
genius of the Scythians, we present you with a yoke of 
oxen, an arrow, and a goblet. We use these respectively 
in our commerce with friends and with foes. We give to 
our friends the corn, which we raise by the labour of our 
oxen ; with the goblet we join with them in pouring drink- 
offerings to the gods ; and with arrows we attack our 
enemies. We have conquered those who have attempted 
to tyrannize over us in our own country, and likewise the 

g5 



ISO THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

kings of the Medes and Persians, when they made unjust 
war upon us ; and we have opened to ourselves a way into 
Egypt. You pretend to be the punisher of robbers ; and 
are yourself the general robber of mankind. You have 
taken Lydia ; you have seized Syria ; you are master of 
Persia ; you have subdued the Bactrians ; and attacked 
India. All this will not satisfy you, unless you lay your 
greedy and insatiable hands upon our flocks and our herds. 
How imprudent is your conduct ! You grasp at riches, 
the possession of which only increases your avarice. You 
increase your hunger by what should produce satiety ; so 
that the more you have, the more you desire. But have you 
forgotten how long the conquest of the Bactrians detained 
you ? While you were subduing them the Sogdians re- 
volted. Your victories serve no other purpose than to find 
you employment by producing new wars. For the business 
of every conquest is two-fold — to win, and to preserve. 
And though you may be the greatest of warriors, you must 
expect that the nations you conquer will endeavour to shake 
off the yoke as fast as possible. For what people chooses 
to be under foreign dominion ? If you will cross the Tanais, 
you may travel over Scythia, and observe how extensive a 
territory we inhabit. But to conquer us is quite another 
business. Your army is loaded with the cumbrous spoils 
of many nations. You will find the poverty of the Scythians 
at one time too nimble for your pursuit ; and at another 
time, when you think we have fled far enough from you, 
you will have us surprise you in your camp. For the 
Scythians attack with no less vigour than they flee. Why 
should we put you in mind of the vastness of the country 
you will have to conquer ? The deserts of Scythia are com- 
monly talked of in Greece; and all the world knows that 
our delight is to dwell at large, and not in towns or plan- 
tations. It will therefore be your wisdom to keep, with 
strict attention, what you have gained. Catching at more, 
you may lose what you have. We have a proverbial saying 
in Scythia, " That fortune has no feet; and is furnished 
only with hands, to distribute her capricious favours ; and 
with fins, to elude the grasp of those to whom she has 
been bountiful." You give yourself out to be a god — the 
son of Jupiter Amnion. It suits the character of a 



SELECTIONS IN PROSE. 131 

god to bestow favours on mortals ; not to deprive them of 
what good they have. But if you are no god, reflect on 
the precarious condition of humanity. You will thus show 
more wisdom, than by dwelling on those subjects which 
have puffed up your pride, and made you forget yourself. 
You see how little you are likely to gain by attempting the 
conquest of Scythia. On the other hand, you may, if you 
please, have in us a valuable alliance. We command the 
borders of both Europe and Asia. There is nothing be- 
tween us and Bactria, but the river Tanais ; and our terri- 
tory extends to Thrace, which, as we have heard, borders 
on Macedon. If you decline attacking us in a hostile man- 
ner, you may have our friendship. Nations which have 
never been at war are on an equal footing. But it is in vain 
that confidence is reposed in a conquered people. There 
can be no sincere friendship between the oppressor and the 
oppressed. Even in peace, the latter think themselves en- 
titled to the rights of war against the former. We will, if 
you think good, enter into a treaty with you, according to 
our manner, which is, not by signing, sealing, and taking 
the gods to witness, as is the Grecian custom, but by doing 
actual services. The Scythians are not used to promise ; 
but to perform without promising. And they think an 
appeal to the gods superfluous; for that those who have no 
regard for the esteem of men, will not hesitate to offend 
the gods by perjury. You may, therefore, consider with 
yourself, whether you had better have a people of such a 
character, and so situate as to have it in their power either 
to serve you or to annoy you, according as you treat them, 
for allies or for enemies. Q. Curtius. 



132 



MODERN ORATORY. 



DEFENCE OF QUEEN CAROLINE. 

See, my Lords, the unhappy fate of this illustrious woman ! 
It has been her lot always to lose her surest stay, her best 
protector, when the dangers most thickened around her ; 
and by a coincidence almost miraculous, there has hardly 
been one of her defenders withdrawn from her, that his 
loss has not been the signal of an attack upon her exist- 
ence. Mr. Pitt was her earliest defender and friend in this 
country. He died in 1806; and but a few weeks after- 
wards, the first inquiry into the conduct of Her Royal 
Highness began. He left her a legacy to Mr. Percival, her 
firm, dauntless, most able advocate ; and, no sooner had 
the hand of an assassin laid Mr. Percival low, than she felt 
the calamity of his death, in the renewal of the attacks 
which his gallantry, his skill, and his invariable constancy 
had discomfited. Mr. Whitbread then undertook her 
defence ; and when that catastrophe happened, which all 
good men lament, without any distinction of party or sect, 
again commenced the distant grumbling of the storm ; for 
it then, happily, was never allowed to approach her, because 
her daughter stood her friend ; and there were who wor- 
shipped the rising sun. But when she lost that amiable 
and beloved daughter, all which might have been expected 
here — all which might have been dreaded by her, if she 
had not been innocent — all she did dread — because, who, 
innocent or guilty, loves persecution ; who delights in trial, 
when character and honour are safe ? — all was, at once, 
allowed to burst upon her head ; and the operations com- 
menced by the Milan Commission. And, my Lords, as it 
there were no possibility of the Queen losing her protector 
without some most important act being played in this 



SELECTIONS IN PROSE. 133 

drama against her, the day which saw the venerable remains 
of our revered sovereign consigned to the tomb — of that 
sovereign, who, from the first outset of the princess in 
English life, had been her constant and steady defender — 
that same sun ushered the ringleader of the band of per- 
jured witnesses into the palace of his illustrious successor. 
Why, my Lords, do I mention these things ? Not for the 
sake of making so trite a remark as, that trading politicians 
are selfish — that spite is twin-brother to ingratitude — that 
nothing will bind base natures — that favours conferred, and 
the duty of gratitude neglected, only makes those natures 
the more malignant. My Lords, the topic would be trite 
and general, and I should be ashamed to trouble your 
Lordships with it ; but I say this once more, in order to 
express my deep sense of the unworthiness with which I 
now succeed such powerful defenders, and my alarm lest 
my exertions should fail to do what theirs, had they been 
living, must have accomplished. 

Such, then, my Lords, is this case. And again let me 
call on your Lordships, even at the risk of repetition, never 
to dismiss for a moment from your minds the two great 
points upon which I rest my attack upon the evidence : — 
first, that they have not proved the facts by the good wit- 
nesses who were within their reach, whom they have no 
shadow of pretext for not calling ; and, secondly, that the 
witnesses, whom they have ventured to call, are, every one 
of them, injured in their credit. How, I again ask, my 
Lords, is a plot ever to be discovered, except by the means 
of these two principles ? Nay ; there are instances in which 
plots have been discovered through the medium of the 
second principle, when the first had happened to fail. 
When venerable witnesses have been seen to be brought 
forward — when persons above all suspicion have lent them- 
selves, for a season, to impure plans — when nothing seemed 
possible — when no resource for the guiltless seemed open ; 
they have almost providentially escaped from the snare by 
the second of these two principles — by the evidence break- 
ing down, where it was not expected to be sifted — by a 
weak point being found, where no pains, from not fore- 
seeing the attack, had been made to support it. 

Your Lordships recollect that great passage — I say great, 



134 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

for it is poetically just and eloquent — in the sacred writings, 
when the elders had joined themselves, two of them, in a 
plot which had appeared to have succeeded, " For that," 
as the scriptures say, " they had hardened their hearts, and 
had turned away their eyes, that they might not look at hea- 
ven, and that they might do the purposes of unjust judg- 
ments." But they, though giving a clear, consistent, and 
uncontradicted story, were disappointed, and their victim 
was rescued from their gripe by the trifling circumstance of 
a contradiction about a mastick tree. Let not man call 
those contradictions, or those falsehoods, which false wit- 
nesses swear to from needless falsehood — such as Sacchi, 
about his changing his name ; or such as Majocchi, about 
the banker's clerk ; or such as all the others belonging to 
the other witnesses ; not going to the main body of the 
case, but to the main body of the credit of the witnesses 
— let not man rashly and blindly call those accidents ; they 
are dispensations of that providence which wills not that 
the guilty should triumph, and which favourably protects 
the innocent. Such, my Lords, is this case now before 
you ! Such is the evidence in support of this measure — 
inadequate to prove a debt — impotent to deprive of any 
civil right — ridiculous to convict of the lowest offence — 
scandalous, if brought forward to support a charge of the 
highest nature which the law knows — monstrous, to ruin 
the honour of an English Queen ! What shall I say, then, 
if this is their case — if this is the species of proof by 
which an act of judicial legislature, an ex post facto law, is 
sought to be passed against this defenceless woman ? My 
Lords, I pray your Lordships to pause. You are standing 
on the brink of a precipice. It will go forth, your judg- 
ment, if it goes against the Queen ; but it will be the only 
judgment you ever will pronounce, which will fail in its 
object, and return upon those who give it. My Lords, 
from the horrors of this catastrophe save the country — ■ 
save yourselves from this situation. Rescue that country, 
of which you are the ornaments ; but in which you could 
flourish no longer, when severed from the people, than the 
blossom when cut off from the root and stem of the tree ; 
save that country, that you may continue to adorn it — save 
the crown, which is in jeopardy — the aristocracy, which is 



SELECTIONS IN PROSE. 135 

shaken — the altar, which never more can stand secure 
amongst the shocks that shall rend its kindred throne. 

You have said, my Lords, you have willed — the 
Church and the King have willed — that the Queen should 
be deprived of its solemn service. She has, indeed, instead 
of that solemnity, the heart-felt prayers of the people. 
She wants no prayers of mine ; but I do here pour forth 
my supplications at the Throne of Mercy, that that mercy 
may be poured down upon the people of this country in 
a larger measure than the merits of its rulers may deserve, 
and that your hearts may be turned to justice. 

Brougham. 



EULOGIUM ON MR. FOX. 

Upon the one great subject, which at this moment, I am 
confident has possession of the whole feelings of every 
man whom I address — the loss, the irreparable loss, of the 
great, the illustrious character, whom we all deplore — I 
shall, I can say — but little. A long interval must take place 
between the heavy blow which has been struck, and the 
consideration of its effect, before any one (and how many 
are there !) of those who have revered and loved Mr. 
Fox, as I have done, can speak of his death with the feeling, 
but manly composure, which becomes the dignified regret 
it ought to inspire. To say anything to you at this moment, 
in the fresh hour of your unburthened sorrows — to depict, 
to dwell upon the great traits of his character — must be 
unnecessary, and almost insulting. His image still lives 
before your eyes — his virtues are in your hearts — his loss 
is your despair. I have seen in a public print, what are 
stated to have been his last words, and they are truly stated. 
They were these : " I die happy." Then, turning to the 
more immediate objects of his private affections, he added, 
" but I pity you." Gentlemen, this statement is precisely 
true. But, oh ! if the solemn fleeting hour had allowed of 
such considerations, and if the unassuming nature of his 
dignified mind had not withheld him, which of you will 
allow his title to have said, not only to the sharers of his do- 
mestic love, hanging in mute despair upon his couch, " I pity 



136 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

you"; but prophetically to have added, " I pity England— 
I pity Europe — I pity human nature." He died in the 
spirit of peace, tranquil in his own expiring heart, and 
cherishing to the last, with a parental solicitude, the con- 
soling hope that he should be able to give established 
tranquillity to harassed contending nations. Let us trust 
that that stroke of death which has borne him from us, may 
not have left the peace of the world, and the civilized 
charities of man, as orphans upon the earth. With such a 
man, to have battled in the cause of genuine liberty — with 
such a man to have struggled against the inroads of oppres- 
sion and corruption — with such an example before me, to 
have to boast that I never in my life gave one vote in Par- 
liament that was not on the side of freedom, is the con- 
gratulation that attends the retrospect of my public life. 
His friendship was the pride and honour of my days. I 
never, for one moment, regretted to share with him the dif- 
ficulties, the calumnies, and sometimes even the dangers, 
that attended his honourable life. And now, reviewing my 
past political conduct (were the option possible that I should 
retread the path), I solemnly and deliberately declare, that 
I would pursue the same course, bear up under the same 
pressure, abide by the same principles, and remain by his 
side an exile from power, distinction, and emolument. If 
I have missed the opportunity of obtaining all the support 
I might, perhaps, have had, on the present occasion, from a 
very scrupulous delicacy, which I think became, and was 
incumbent upon me, I cannot repent it. In so doing, I acted 
on the feelings upon which I am sensible all those would 
have acted who loved Mr. Fox as I did. I felt within 
myself, that while the slightest aspiration might still quiver 
on those lips, that were the copious channels of eloquence, 
wisdom, and benevolence — that while one drop of life's 
blood might still warm that heart, which throbbed only for 
the good of mankind — I should not, I could not have acted 
otherwise. 

Gentlemen, the hour is not far distant, when an awful 
knell shall tell you, that the unburied remains of your re- 
vered patriot are passing through your streets to that 
sepulchral home, where your kings, your heroes, your sages, 
and your poets, will be honoured by an association with his 



SELECTIONS IN PROSE. 137 

mortal remains. At that hour, when the sad solemnity 
shall take place, in a private way, as more suited to the 
simple dignity of his character, than the splendid gaudiness 
of public pageantry; when you (all of you), shall be self- 
marshalled in reverential sorrow mute, and reflecting on 
your mighty loss — at that moment shall the disgusting con- 
test of an election-wrangle break the solemnity of such a 
scene ? Is it fitting that any man should overlook the crisis, 
and risk the monstrous and disgusting contest ? Is it fit- 
ting that I should be that man ? R. B. Sheridan. 



INAUGURAL DISCOURSE, 

ON BEING INSTALLED LORD RECTOR OF THE UNIVERSITY 
OF GLASGOW, 1825. 

It now becomes me to return my very sincere and re- 
spectful thanks for the kindness which has placed me in a 
chair, filled at former times by so many great men, whose 
names might well make any comparison formidable to a far 
more worthy successor. 

I feel very sensibly, that if I shall now urge you, by 
general exhortations, to be instant in the pursuit of the 
learning which, in all its branches, flourishes under the 
kindly shelter of these roofs, I may weary you with the 
unprofitable repetition of a thrice-told tale ; and if I pre- 
sume to offer my advice touching the conduct of your 
studies, I may seem to trespass upon the province of those 
venerable persons under whose care you have the singular 
happiness to be placed. But I would, nevertheless, expose 
myself to either charge, for the sake of joining my voice 
with theirs, in anxiously entreating you to believe how in- 
comparably the present season is verily and indeed the 
most precious of your whole lives. It is not the less true, 
because it has been oftentimes said, that the period of 
youth is by far the best fitted for the improvement of the 
mind, and the retirement of a college almost exclusively 
adapted to much study. At your enviable age, everything 
has the lively interest of novelty and freshness ; attention 
is perpetually sharpened by curiosity, and the memory is 



138 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

tenacious of the deep impressions it thus receives, to a 
degree unknown in after life ; while the distracting cares of 
the world, or its beguiling pleasures, cross not the threshold 
of these calm retreats ; its distant noise and bustle are 
faintly heard, making the shelter you enjoy more grateful ; 
and the struggles of anxious mortals, embarked upon that 
troublous sea, are viewed from an eminence, the security 
of which is rendered more sweet by the prospect of the 
scene below. Yet a little while, and you, too, will be 
plunged into those waters of bitterness; and will cast an 
eye of regret, as now I do, upon the peaceful regions you 
have quitted for ever. Such is your lot, as members of 
society ; but it will be your own fault, if you look back on 
this place with repentance or with shame; and be well 
assured, that whatever time — aye, every hour — you squander 
here on unprofitable idling, will then rise up against you, and 
be paid for by years of bitter but unavailing regrets. 
Study, then, I beseech you, so to store your minds with 
the exquisite learning of former ages, that you may always 
possess within yourselves sources of rational and refined 
enjoyment, which will enable you to set at nought the 
grosser pleasures of sense, whereof other men are slaves ; 
and so imbue yourselves with the sound philosophy of later 
days, forming yourselves to the virtuous habits which are 
its legitimate offspring, that you may walk unhurt through 
the trials which await you, and may look down upon the 
ignorance and error that surround you, not with lofty and 
supercilious contempt, as the sages of old times, but with 
the vehement desire of enlightening those who wander in 
darkness, and who are by so much the more endeared to 
us by how much they want our assistance. 

To me, calmly revolving these things, such pursuits 
seem far more noble objects of ambition than any upon 
which the vulgar herd of busy men lavish prodigal their 
restless exertions. To diffuse useful information — to further 
intellectual refinement, sure forerunner of moral improve- 
ment — to hasten the coming of that bright day, when the 
dawn of general knowledge shall chase away the lazy, lin- 
gering mists, even from the base of the great social pyramid ; 
this, indeed, is a high calling, in which the most splendid 
talents and consummate virtue may well press onward, eager 



SELECTIONS IN PROSE. 139 

to bear a part. I know that I speak in a place consecrated 
by the pious wisdom of ancient times to the instruction of 
but a select portion of the community, yet from this classic 
ground have gone forth those whose genius, not their 
ancestry, ennobled them ; whose incredible merits have 
opened to all ranks the temple of science ; whose illustrious 
example has made the humblest emulous to climb steeps 
no longer inaccessible, and enter the unfolded gates burning 
in the sun. I speak in that city where Black having once 
taught, and Watt learned, the grand experiment was after- 
wards made in our day, and with entire success, to demon- 
strate that the highest intellectual cultivation is perfectly 
compatible with the daily cares and toils of working men ; 
to shew, by thousands of living examples, that a keen 
relish for the most sublime truths of science belongs alike 
to every class of mankind. 

To promote this, of all objects the most important, men 
of talents and of influence I rejoice to behold pressing 
forward in every part of the empire ; but I wait with im- 
patient anxiety to see the same course pursued by men of 
high station in society, and by men of rank in the world of 
letters. It should seem as if these felt some little lurking 
jealousy, and those were somewhat scared by feelings of 
alarm — the one and the other surely alike groundless. No 
man of science needs fear to see the day when scientific 
excellence shall be too vulgar a commodity to bear a high 
price. The more widely knowledge is spread, the more will 
they be prized whose happy lot it is to extend its bounds by 
discovering new truths, or multiply its uses by inventing new 
modes of applying it in practice. Their numbers will, indeed, 
be increased, and among them more Watts and more Frank- 
lins will be enrolled among the lights of the world, in pro- 
portion as more thousands of the working-classes, to which 
Franklin and Watt belonged, have their thoughts turned 
towards philosophy ; but the order of discoverers and in- 
ventors will still be a select few, and the only material 
variation in their proportion to the bulk of mankind will 
be, that the mass of the ignorant multitude being pro- 
gressively diminished, the body of those will be incalculably 
increased who are worthy to admire genius, and able to 
bestow upon its possessors an immortal fame. 



140 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

And if the benefactors of mankind, when they rest 
from their pious labours, shall be permitted to enjoy here- 
after, as an appropriate reward of their virtue, the privilege 
of looking down upon the blessings with which their toils 
and sufferings have clothed the scene of their former 
existence ; do not vainly imagine that, in a state of exalted 
purity and wisdom, the founders of mighty dynasties, the 
conquerors of new empires, or the more vulgar crowd of 
evil-doers, who have sacrificed to their own aggrandisement 
the good of their fellow- creatures, will be gratified by con- 
templating the monuments of their inglorious fame : theirs 
will be the delight — theirs the triumph — who can trace the 
remote effects of their enlightened benevolence in the im- 
proved condition of their species, and exult in the reflection, 
that the prodigious change they now survey, 'with eyes 
that age and sorrow can make dim no more — of knowledge 
become power — virtue sharing in the dominion — super- 
stition trampled under foot — tyranny driven from the 
world — are the fruits — precious, though costly and though 
late reaped, yet long enduring — of all the hardships and 
all the hazards they encountered here below ! 

Brougham. 



NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE'S PROCLAMATION 

ON HIS RETURN FROM ELBA. 

Soldiers ! we have not been conquered : two men, 
sprung from our ranks, have betrayed our laurels, their 
country, their benefactor, and their prince. Those whom 
we have beheld for twenty-five years, traversing all Europe 
to raise up enemies against us ; who have spent their lives 
in fighting against us in the ranks of foreign armies, and 
in cursing our beautiful France ; shall they pretend to 
command or enchain our eagles, they who have never been 
able to look them in the face ? Shall we suffer them to 
inherit the fruit of our glorious toils ; to take possession of 
our honours, of our fortunes ; to calumniate and revile our 
glory ? If their reign were to continue, all would be lost, 
even the recollection of those memorable days. With 
what fury they misrepresent them ! They seek to tarnish 



SELECTIONS IN PROSE. 141 

what the world admires ; and if there still remain de- 
fenders of our glory, they are to be found among those 
very enemies whom we have confronted in fields of battle. 

Soldiers ! In my exile I have heard your voice ; I have 
come back in spite of all obstacles and all dangers. Your 
general, called to the throne by the choice of the people, 
and raised on your shields, is restored to you : come and 
join him. Mount the tri-coloured cockade; you wore in 
the days of our greatness. We must forget that we have 
been the masters of nations ; but we must not suffer any 
to intermeddle in our affairs. Who would pretend to be 
master over us ? Who would have the power ? Resume 
those eagles which you had at Ulm, at Austerlitz, at Jena, 
at Eylau, at Wagram, at Friedland, at Tudela, at Eckmuhl, 
at Essling, at Smolensk, at the Moskwa, at Lutzen, at 
Wurtchen, at Montmirail. The veterans of the armies of 
the Sambre and Meuse, of the Rhine, of Italy, of Egypt, 
of the West, of the Grand Army, are humiliated ; their 
honourable scars are stained ; their successes would be 
crimes ; the brave would be rebels ; if, as the enemies of 
the people pretend, the legitimate sovereigns were in the 
midst of the foreign armies. Honours, recompenses, 
favours, are reserved for those who have served with 
them against the country and against us. Soldiers ! Come 
and range yourselves under the banners of your chief ; his 
existence is only made up of yours ; his rights are only 
those of the people and yours ; his interest, his honour, his 
glory, are no other than your interest, your honour, and 
your glory. Victory shall march at a charging-step ; the 
eagle, with the national colours, shall fly from steeple to 
steeple till it reaches the towers of Notre Dame. Then 
you will be able to shew your scars with honour ; then you 
will be able to boast of what you have done ; you will be 
the liberators of the country. In your old age, surrounded 
and looked up to by your fellow citizens, they will listen to 
you with respect as you recount your high deeds ; you will 
each of you be able to say with pride, " And I also made 
part of that Grand Army which entered twice within the 
walls of Vienna, within those of Rome, of Berlin, of 
Madrid, of Moscow, and which delivered Paris from the 
stain which treason and the presence of the enemy had 



142 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

imprinted on it." Honour to those brave soldiers, the 
glory of their country ! 



REPLY OF LORD CHATHAM TO 
HORACE WALPOLE. 

This illustrious father of English oratory, having expressed 
himself in the House of Commons, with his accustomed 
energy, in opposition to a bill then before the House, for 
preventing merchants from raising the wages of seamen in 
time of war, and thereby inducing them to avoid His Majesty s 
service, his speech produced an answer from Mr. Horace 
Walpole, who in the course of it said, " Formidable sounds 
and furious declamation, confident assertions and lofty periods, 
may affect the young and inexperienced; and, perhaps, the 
honourable gentleman may have contracted his habits of 
oratory, by conversing more with those of his own age, than 
with such as have had more opportunities of acquiring know- 
ledge, and more successful methods of communicating their 
sentiments." And he made use of some expressions, such as 
vehemence of gesture, theatrical emotion, etc., and applied them 
to Mr. Pitt's manner of speaking. As soon as Mr. Walpole 
had sat down, Mr. Pitt arose and replied as follows : — 

" Sir, — The atrocious crime of being a young man (which 
the honourable gentleman has, with such spirit and de- 
cency, charged upon me), I shall neither attempt to palliate 
nor deny, but content myself with wishing that I may be 
one of those whose follies may cease with their youth, and 
not of that number who are ignorant in spite of experience. 
Whether youth can be imputed to any man as a reproach, 
I will not, sir, assume the province of determining; but 
surely age may become justly contemptible, if the oppor- 
tunities which it brings have passed away without improve- 
ment, and vice appears to prevail, when the passions have 
subsided. The wretch who (after having seen the conse- 
quences of a thousand errors), continues still to blunder, 
and whose age has only added obstinacy to stupidity, is 
surely the object either of abhorrence or contempt, and 
deserves not that his grey hairs should secure him from 
insult. Much more, sir, is he to be abhorred, who, as he 



SELECTIONS IN PROSE. 143 

has advanced in age, has receded from virtue, and becomes 
more wicked with less temptation ; who prostitutes himself 
for money, which he cannot enjoy, and spends the remains 
of his life in the ruin of his country. But youth, sir, is not 
my only crime ; I have been accused of acting a theatrical 
part. A theatrical part may either imply some peculiarities 
of gesture, or a dissimulation of my real sentiments, and 
an adoption of the opinions and language of another man. 

In the first sense, sir, the charge is too trifling to be 
confuted, and deserves only to be mentioned, that it may 
be despised. I am at liberty, like every other man, to use 
my own language ; and though, perhaps, I may have some 
ambition to please this gentleman, I shall not lay myself 
under any restraint, nor very solicitously copy his diction 
or his mien, however matured by age or modelled by ex- 
perience. But, if any man shall, by charging me with 
theatrical behaviour, imply that I utter any sentiments but 
my own, I shall treat him as a calumniator, and a villain ; 
nor shall any protection shelter him from the treatment he 
deserves. I shall, on such an occasion, without scruple, 
trample upon all those forms with which wealth and dignity 
intrench themselves ; nor shall anything but age restrain 
my resentment: age, which always brings one privilege, 
that of being insolent and supercilious without punishment. 
But with regard, sir, to those whom I have offended, I am 
of opinion, that if I had acted a borrowed part, I should 
have avoided their censure: the heat that offended them is 
the ardour of conviction, and that zeal for the service of 
my country, which neither hope nor fear shall influence me 
to suppress. I will not sit unconcerned while my liberty 
is invaded, nor look in silence upon public robbery. I will 
exert my endeavours, at whatever hazard, to repel the 
aggressor, and drag the thief to justice, whoever may protect 
him in his villany, and whoever may partake of his plunder ! 



ROLLA TO THE PERUVIANS. 

My brave associates — partners of my toil, my feelings, 
and my fame! Can Rolla's words add vigour to the 



144 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

virtuous energies which inspire your hearts ? No ! You 
have judged, as I have, the foulness of the crafty plea by 
which these bold invaders would delude you. Your gene- 
rous spirit has compared, as mine has, the motives, which, 
in a war like this, can animate their minds and ours. They, 
by a strange frenzy driven, fight for power, for plunder, 
and extended rule ; we, for our country, our altars, and 
our homes. They follow an adventurer whom they fear, 
and obey a power which they hate; we serve a monarch 
whom we love — a God whom we adore. "Whene'er they 
move in anger, desolation tracks their progress ! Whene'er 
they pause in amity, affliction mourns their friendship. 
They boast they come but to improve our state, enlarge 
our thoughts, and free us from the yoke of error ! Yes ; 
they will give enlightened freedom to our minds, who are 
themselves the slaves of passion, avarice, and pride. They 
offer us their protection : yes ; such protection as vultures 
give to lambs — covering and devouring them ! They 
call on us to barter all of good we have inherited and 
proved, for the desperate chance of something better 
which they promise. Be our plain answer this : — The 
throne we honour is the people's choice; the laws we 
reverence are our brave fathers' legacy ; the faith we 
follow teaches us to live in bonds of charity with all man- 
kind, and die with hope of bliss beyond the grave. Tell 
your invaders this, and tell them too, we seek no change ; 
and least of all, such change as they would bring us. — 

Sheridan. 



SPEECH IN THE HOUSE OF PEERS 

AGAINST THE AMERICAN WAR, AND AGAINST EMPLOYING 
THE INDIANS IN IT. 

I cannot, my Lords, I will not, join in congratulation on 
misfortune and disgrace. This, my Lords, is a perilous and 
tremendous moment ; it is not a time for adulation ; the 
smoothness of flattery cannot save us in this rugged and 
awful crisis. It is now necessary to instruct the throne in 
the language of truth. We must, if possible, dispel the 
delusion and darkness which envelop it ; and display, in 



SELECTIONS IN PROSE. 145 

its full danger and genuine colours, the ruin which is 
brought to our doors. Can ministers still presume to 
expect support in their infatuation ? Can parliament be so 
dead to their dignity and duty as to give their support to 
measures thus obtruded and forced upon them ? Measures, 
my Lords, which have reduced this late flourishing empire 
to scorn and contempt! But yesterday, and Britain 
might have stood against the world; now, " none so poor as 
to do her reverence." The people whom we at first 
despised as rebels, but whom we now acknowledge as 
enemies, are abetted against us, supplied with every 
military store, have their interest consulted, and their 
ambassadors entertained by our inveterate enemy — 
and ministers do not, and dare not, interpose with dignity 
or effect. The desperate state of our army abroad is in part 
known. No man more highly esteems and honours the 
British troops than I do ; I know their virtues and their 
valour; I know they can achieve anything but impossibilities, 
and I know that the conquest of British America is an im- 
possibility. You cannot, my Lords, you cannot conquer 
America. What is your present situation there ? We do 
not know the worst ; but we know that in three campaigns we 
have done nothing, and suffered much. You may swell 
every expense, accumulate every assistance, and extend 
your traffic to the shambles of every German despot ; your 
attempts will be for ever vain and impotent — doubly so, 
indeed, from this mercenary aid on which you rely ; for it 
irritates, to an incurable resentment, the minds of your 
adversaries, to over -run them with the mercenary sons of 
rapine and plunder, devoting them and their possessions to 
the rapacity of hireling cruelty. If I were an American — 
as I am an Englishman — while a foreign troop was landed 
in my country, I never would lay down my arms. Never ! 
never ! never ! 

But, my Lords, who is the man, that, in addition to the 
disgraces and mischiefs of the war, has dared to authorise 
and associate to our arms the tomahawk and scalping- 
knife of the savage ? To call into civilised alliance, the 
wild and inhuman inhabitant of the woods ? To delegate 
to the merciless Indian the defence of disputed rights, and 
to wage the horrors of his barbarous war against our 

H 



146 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

brethren? My Lords, these enormities cry aloud for 
redress and punishment. But, my Lords, this barbarous 
measure has been defended, not only on the principles of 
policy and necessity, but also on those of morality; "for it 
is perfectly allowable," says Lord Suffolk, " to use all the 
means, which God and nature have put into our hand." 

I am astonished, I am shocked, to hear such principles 
confessed ; to hear them avowed in this House, or in this 
country. My Lords, I did not intend to encroach so 
much on your attention ; but I cannot repress my indigna- 
tion, I feel myself impelled to speak. My Lords, we are 
called upon as members of this House, as men, as 
Christians, to protest against such horrible barbarity ! 
" That God and nature have put into our hands !" What 
ideas of God and nature that noble Lord may entertain, I 
know not ; but I know that such detestable principles are 
equally abhorrent to religion and humanity. What ! to 
attribute the sacred sanction of God and nature to the massa- 
cres of the Indian scalping- knife ! to the cannibal savage 
torturing, murdering, devouring, drinking the blood of his 
mangled victims ! Such notions shock every precept of 
morality, every feeling of humanity, every sentiment of 
honour. These abominable principles, and this more 
abominable avowal of them, demand the most decisive 
indignation. 

I call upon that right reverend, and this most learned 
bench, to vindicate the religion of their God, to support 
the justice of their country. I call upon the Bishops to 
interpose the unsullied sanctity of their lawn ; upon the 
Judges, to interpose the purity of their ermine, to save us 
from this pollution. I call upon the honour of your Lord- 
ships, to reverence the dignity of your ancestors, and to 
maintain your own. I call upon the spirit and humanity 
of my country, to vindicate the national character. I in- 
voke the genius of the constitution. To send forth the 
merciless cannibal thirsting for blood ! against whom ?— 
our brethren ! to lay waste their country, to desolate their 
dwellings, and extirpate their race and name, by the aid 
and instrumentality of these horrible hounds of war ! 
Spain can no longer boast pre-eminence in barbarity. She 
armed herself with bloodhounds, to extirpate the wretched 



SELECTIONS IN PROSE. 147 

natives of Mexico ! We, more ruthless, loose these dogs 
of war against our co\mtrymen in America, endeared to us 
by every tie that can sanctify humanity. I solemnly call 
upon your Lordships, and upon every order of men in the 
state, to stamp upon this infamous procedure, the indelible 
stigma of public abhorrence. More particularly, I call 
upon the holy prelates of our religion, to do away this 
iniquity; let them perform a lustration to purify the 
country from this deep and deadly sin. My Lords, I am 
old and weak, and at present unable to say more ; but my 
feelings and indignation were too strong to have said less. 
I could not have slept this night in my bed, nor even 
reposed my head upon my pillow, without giving vent to 
my eternal abhorrence of such enormous and preposterous 
principles. Lord Chatham. 



SPEECH, AGAINST THE PRINTER AND PUB- 
LISHER OF "THE AGE OF REASON." 

The defendant stands indicted for having published this 
book, which I have only read from the obligations of pro- 
fessional duty, and which I rose from the reading of -with 
astonishment and disgust. For my own part, gentlemen, 
I have been ever deeply devoted to the truths of Christianity, 
and ray firm belief in the Holy Gospel is by no means 
owing to the prejudices of education (though I was reli- 
giously educated by the best of parents), but arises from the 
fullest and most continued reflections of my riper years and 
understanding : it forms, at this moment, a great consola- 
tion of my life, which, as a shadow, must pass away ; and 
without it, indeed, I should consider my long course of 
health and prosperity (perhaps too long and too uninter- 
rupted to be good for any man), only as the dust which the 
wind scatters, and rather as a snare than as a blessing. 

This publication appears to me to be as mischievous and 
cruel in its probable effects, as it is manifestly illegal in its 
principles ; because it strikes at the best, sometimes, alas ! 
the only refuge and consolation amidst the distresses and 
afflictions of the world. The poor and humble, whom it 



148 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

affects to pity, may be stabbed to the heart by it — they 
have more occasion for firm hope beyond the grave than 
those who have greater comforts to render life delightful. 
I can conceive a distressed, but virtuous man, surrounded 
by children, looking up to him for bread, when he has none 
to give them, sinking. under the last day's labour, and un- 
equal to the next, yet, still looking up with confidence to 
the hour when all tears shall be wiped from the eye of 
affliction, bearing the burden laid upon him, by a mysterious 
Providence which he adores; and looking forward with 
exultation to the revealed promises of his Creator, when 
he shall be greater than the greatest, and happier than the 
happiest of mankind. What a change in such a breast 
might not be wrought by such a merciless publication ! 

But it seems, this is an age of reason, and the time and 
the person are at last arrived, that are to dissipate the 
errors which have overspread the past generations of 
ignorance. The believers in Christianity are many ; but it 
belongs to the few that are wise to correct their credulity. 
Belief is an act of reason ; superior reason may, therefore, 
dictate to the weak. In running the mind over the long 
list of sincere and devout Christians, I cannot help lament- 
ing that Newton had not lived to this day, to have had his 
shallowness filled up with this new flood of light. But the 
subject is too awful for irony. I will speak plainly and 
directly. Newton was a Christian ! Newton, whose mind 
burst forth from the fetters cast by nature upon our finite 
conceptions. Newton, whose science was truth, and the 
foundation of whose knowledge of it was philosophy — not 
those visionary and arrogant presumptions which too often 
usurp its name, but philosophy resting on the basis of 
mathematics, which, like figures, cannot lie. Newton, who 
carried the line and rule to the utmost barriers of creation, 
and explored the principles by which all created matter is 
held together and exists. But this extraordinary man, in the 
mighty reach of his mind, overlooked, perhaps, the errors 
which a minuter investigation of the created things on this 
earth might have taught him, of the essence of his Creator. 

What shall then be said of the great Mr. Boyle, who 
looked into the organic structure of all matter, even to the 



SELECTIONS IN PROSE. 149 

brute inanimate substances which the foot treads on? 
Such a man may be supposed to have been equally qualified 
with Mr. Paine, to look up through nature to nature's Goal 
Yet the result of all his contemplations was the most con- 
firmed and devout belief of all which the other holds in 
contempt as despicable and drivelling superstition : but 
this error might perhaps arise from a want of a due atten- 
tion to the foundations of human judgment, and the struc- 
ture of that understanding which God has given us for the 
investigation of truth. 

Let that question be answered by Mr. Locke, who was, 
to the highest pitch of devotion and adoration, a Christian. 
Mr. Locke, whose office was to detect the errors of 
thinking, by going up to the fountain of thought, and to 
direct into the proper track of reasoning the devious mind 
of man, by showing him its whole process, from the first 
perceptions of sense to the last conclusions of ratiocina- 
tion, putting a rein besides upon false opinion, by practical 
rules, for the conduct of human judgment. But these men 
were only deep thinkers, and lived in their closets, unac- 
customed to the traffic of the world, and to the laws which 
practically regulate mankind. 

Gentlemen, — In the place where we now sit to adminis- 
ter the justice of this great country, above a century ago 
the never-to-be-forgotten Sir Matthew Hale presided, whose 
faith in Christianity is an exalted commentary upon its 
truth and reason, and whose life was a glorious example 
of its fruit in man, administering human justice with a 
wisdom and purity drawn from the pure fountain of the 
Christian dispensation, which has been, and will be, in all 
ages, a subject of the highest reverence and admiration. 

Thus you find all that is great, or wise, or splendid, or 
illustrious, among created beings — all the minds gifted 
beyond ordinary nature (if not inspired by its Universal 
Author for the advancement and dignity of the world) — 
though divided by distant ages, and by the clashing opinions, 
distinguishing them from one another, yet joining, as it 
were, in one sublime chorus, to celebrate the truths of 
Christianity, and laying upon its holy altars the never- 
fading offerings of their immortal wisdom. 

Lord Ersklne* 



150 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

SPEECH AGAINST WARREN HASTINGS. 

Had a stranger, at this time, gone into the province of 
Oude, ignorant of what had happened since the death of 
Sujah Dowla — that man who, with a savage heart, had 
still great lines of character ; and who, with all his ferocity 
in war, had still, with a cultivating hand, preserved to his 
country the riches which it derived from benignant skies 
and a prolific soil — if this stranger, ignorant of all that 
had happened in the short interval, and observing the 
wide and general devastation, and all the horrors of the 
scene — of plains unclothed and brown — of vegetables 
burned up and extinguished — of villages depopulated and 
in ruins — of temples unroofed and perishing — of reservoirs 
broken down and dry, — he w T ould naturally inquire, what 
war has thus laid waste the fertile fields of this once beau- 
tiful and opulent country ? What civil dissensions have 
happened thus to tear asunder and separate the happy 
societies that once possessed those villages ? What dis- 
puted succession — what religious rage has, with unholy 
violence, demolished those temples, and disturbed fervent 
out unobtruding piety, in the exercise of its duties ? What 
merciless enemy has thus spread the horrors of fire and 
sword ? What severe visitation of Providence has dried 
up the fountain, and taken from the face of the earth 
every vestige of verdure ? Or, rather, what monsters 
have stalked over the country, tainting and poisoning, 
with pestiferous breath, what the voracious appetite could 
not devour? To such questions, what must be the an- 
swer ? No wars have ravaged these lands, and depopulated 
these villages — no civil discords have been felt — no dis- 
puted succession — no religious rage — no merciless enemy 
— no affliction of Providence, which, while it scourged for 
the moment, cut off the sources of resuscitation — no 
voracious and poisoning monsters — no, all this has been 
accomplished by the friendship, generosity, and kindness 
of the English nation. They have embraced us with their 
protecting arms, and, lo ! those are the fruits of their 
alliance. What, then, shall we be told that, under such 
circumstances, the exasperated feelings of a whole people 



SELECTIONS IN PROSE. 151 

thus goaded and spurred on to clamour and resistance, 
were excited by the poor and feeble influence of the 
Begums ? When we hear the description of the paroxysm, 
fever, delirium, into which despair had thrown the na- 
tives, when on the banks of the polluted Ganges, panting 
for death, they tore more widely open the lips of their 
gaping wounds, to accelerate their dissolution ; and, while 
their blood was issuing, presented their ghastly eyes to 
heaven ; breathing their last and fervent prayer, that the- 
dry earth might not be suffered to drink their blood, but 
that it might rise up to the throne of God, and rouse the 
eternal Providence to avenge the wrongs of their country. 
Will it be said, that this was brought about by the incan- 
tations of these Begums in their secluded Zenana? or that 
they could inspire this enthusiasm and this despair into 
the breasts of a people who felt no grievance, and had 
suffered no torture ? What motive, then, could have such 
influence in their bosom ? What motive ? That which 
nature, the common parent, plants in the bosom of man ; 
and which, though it may be less active in the Indian 
than in the Englishman, is still congenial with, and makes 
part of his being — that feeling which tells him, that man 
was never made to be the property of man ; but that, 
when, through pride and insolence of power, one human 
creature dares to tyrannise over another, it is a power 
usurped, and resistance is a duty — that feeling which tells 
him, that all power is delegated for the good, not for the 
injury of the people ; and that, when it is converted from 
the original purpose, the compact is broken, and the right 
is to be resumed — that principle which tells him, that re- 
sistance to power usurped is not merely a duty which he owes 
to himself and to his neighbour, but a duty which he owes 
to his God, in asserting and maintaining the rank which he 
gave him in the creation ! To that common God, who, 
where he gives the form of man, whatever may be the 
complexion, gives also the feelings and the rights of man — 
that principle which neither the rudeness of ignorance can 
stifle, nor the enervation of refinement extinguish— that 
principle, which makes it base for a man to suffer when he 
ought to act — which tending to preserve to the species the 



152 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

original designations of Providence, spurns at the arrogant 
distinctions of man, and vindicates the independent quality 
of his race. Sheridan. 



SPEECH OF LORD STRAFFORD, 

BEFORE SENTENCE PASSED ON HIM BY THE LORDS 
FOR TREASON. 

My Lords, as this species of treason, of which I am ac- 
cused by the Commons, is entirely new and unknown to 
the laws, so is the species of proof by which they pretend 
to fix that guilt upon me. They have invented a kind of 
accumulative or constructive evidence, by which many 
actions, either totally innoeent in themselves, or criminal 
in a much inferior degree, shall, when united, amount to 
treason, and subject the person to the highest penalties 
inflicted by the laws. A hasty and unguarded word, a rash 
and passionate action, assisted by the malevolent fancy of 
the accuser, and tortured by doubtful constructions, is 
transmuted into the deepest guilt ; and the lives and for- 
tunes of the whole nation, no longer protected by justice, 
are subjected to arbitrary will and pleasure. 

Where has this species of guilt lain so long concealed ? 
Where has this fire been so long buried, during so many 
centuries, that no smoke should appear till it burst out at 
once to consume me and my children ? Better it were to 
live under no law at all, and, by the maxims of a cautious 
prudence, to conform ourselves the best we can to the 
arbitrary will of a master, than fancy we have a law on 
which we can rely, and which shall inflict a punishment, 
precedent to the promulgation, and try us by maxims un- 
heard of till the very moment of the prosecution. If I 
sail on the Thames, and split my vessel on an anchor, in 
case there be no buoy to give me warning, the party shall 
pay the damages ; but if the anchor be marked out, then 
is the striking on it at my own peril. Where is the mark 
set upon this crime ? It has lain concealed under water ; 
and no human prudence, no human innocence, could save 
me from the destruction with which I am at present 
threatened. 



SELECTIONS IN PROSE. 153 

It is now full two hundred and forty years since treasons 
were defined ; and so long has it been since any man was 
touched to this extent, upon this crime, before myself. 
We have lived, my Lords, happily to ourselves at home ; 
we have lived gloriously abroad to the world : let us be 
content with what our fathers have left us ; let not our 
ambition carry us to be more learned than they were in 
these killing and destructive arts. To all my afflictions add 
not this, my Lords (the most severe of any), that I, for 
my other sins, not for my treasons, be the means of intro- 
ducing a precedent so pernicious to the laws and liberties 
of my native country. However, these gentlemen at the 
bar say they speak for the commonwealth, and they believe 
so ; yet, under favour, it is I, who, in this particular, speak for 
the commonwealth. Precedents, like those which are en- 
deavoured to be established against me, must draw along 
such inconveniences and miseries, that in a few years the 
kingdom will be in a condition expressed in a statute of 
Henry the Fourth, and no man shall know by what rule to 
govern his words and actions. 

My Lords, I have now troubled your Lordships a great 
deal longer than I should have done, were it not for the 
interest of these pledges, which a saint in heaven left me, 
I should be loth — What I forfeit for myself is nothing — 
but, I confess, that my indiscretion should forfeit for 
them — it wounds me very deeply. You will be pleased 
to pardon my infirmity : something I should have said, but 
I see I shall not be able, therefore I shall leave it. 

And now, my Lords, I thank God, that I have been, by 
His blessing, sufficiently instructed in the extreme vanity 
of all temporary enjoyments, compared to the importance 
of our eternal duration. And so, my Lords, even so, with 
all humility and with all tranquillity of mind, I submit 
clearly and freely to your judgment ; and whether that 
righteous judgment be to life or death, I shall repose my- 
self, full of gratitude and confidence, in the arms of the 
Great Author of my existence. 



h 5 



154 



THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 



SPEECH ON THE BREAKING OUT OF THE WAR 
OF AMERICAN INDEPENDENCE. 

Mr. President, — It is natural to man to indulge in the 
illusions of hope. We are apt to shut our eyes against a 
painful truth, and listen to the song of that syren, till she 
transforms us into beasts. Is this the part of wise men 
engaged in a great and arduous struggle for liberty ? Are 
we disposed to be of the number of those, who, having 
eyes, see not, and having ears, hear not, the things which 
so nearly concern our temporal salvation ? For my part, 
whatever anguish of spirit it may cost, I am willing to 
know the whole truth ; to know the worst, and to provide 
for it. 

I have but one lamp by which my feet are guided, and 
that is the lamp of experience. I know of no way of 
judging of the future but by the past ; and judging by the 
past, 1 wish to know what there has been in the conduct 
of the British ministry for the last ten years, to justify 
those hopes with which gentlemen have been pleased to 
solace themselves ,and the house ? Is it that insidious smile 
with which our petition has been lately received ? Trust it 
not, sir, it will prove a snare to your feet. Suffer not 
yourselves to be betrayed with a kiss. Ask yourselves 
how this gracious reception of our petition comports with 
those warlike preparations which cover our waters and 
darken our land. Are fleets and armies necessary to a 
work of love and reconciliation ? Have we shown our- 
selves so unwilling to be reconciled, that force must be 
called in to win back our love ? Let us not deceive our- 
selves, sir. These are the implements of war and subju- 
gation, the last arguments to which kings resort. I ask, 
gentlemen — sir — what means this martial array, if its 
purpose be not to force us to submission ? Can gentlemen 
assign any other possible motive for it ? Has Great Britain 
any enemy in this quarter of the world, to call for all this 
accumulation of navies and armies ? No, Sir, she has 
none. They are meant for us, they can be meant for no 
other. They are sent over to bind and rivet upon us those 
chains which the British ministry have been so long forging. 
And what have we to oppose to them? Shall we try 



SELECTIONS IN PROSE. 155 

argument ? Sir, we have been trying that for the last ten 
years. Have we anything new to offer upon the subject ? 
Nothing. We have held the subject up in every light of 
which it is capable ; but it has been all in vain. Shall we 
resort to entreaty and humble supplication ? What terms 
shall we find which have not been already exhausted ? Let 
us not, I beseech you, sir, deceive ourselves longer. Sir, 
we have done everything that could be done, to avert the 
storm which is now coming on. We have petitioned, we 
have remonstrated, we have supplicated, we have prostrated 
ourselves before the throne, and have implored its inter- 
position to arrest the tyrannical hands of the ministry and 
parliament. Our petitions have been slighted, our remon- 
strance? have produced additional violence and insult, our 
supplications have been disregarded, and we have been 
spurned with contempt from the foot of the throne. In 
vain, after these things, may we indulge the fond hope of 
peace and reconciliation. There is no longer any room for 
hope. If we wish to be free, if we mean to preserve in- 
violate those inestimable privileges, for which we have been 
so long contending — if we mean not basely to abandon the 
noble struggle in which we have been so long engaged, and 
which we have pledged ourselves never to abandon until 
the glorious object of our contest shall be obtained, we 
must fight ; I repeat it, sir, we must fight. An appeal to 
arms, and to the God of Hosts, is all that is left us. 

They tell us, sir, that we are weak, unable to cope with 
so formidable an adversary. But when shall we be stronger ? 
Will it be the next week, or the next year ? Will it be 
when we are totally disarmed, and when a British guard 
shall be stationed in every house ? Shall we gather strength 
by irresolution and inaction ? Shall we acquire the means 
of effectual resistance by lying supinely on our backs, and 
hugging the delusive phantom of hope, until our enemies 
shall have bound us hand and foot ? Sir, we are not weak, 
if we make a proper use of those means which the God of 
nature hath placed in our power. Three millions of people, 
armed in the holy cause of liberty, and in such a country 
as that which we possess, are invincible by any force which 
our enemy can send against us. Besides, >ir, we shall 
not fight our battles alone. There is a just God, who pre- 



156 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

sides over the destinies of nations, and who will raise up 
friends to fight our battles for us. The battle, Sir, is not 
to the strong alone ; it is to the vigilant, the active, the 
brave. Besides, sir, we have no election. If we were 
base enough to desire it, it is now too late to retire from 
the contest. There is no retreat, but in submission and 
slavery. Our chains are forged, their clanking may be 
heard on the plains of Boston. The war is inevitable; and 
let it come ! I repeat it, sir, let it come ! It is in vain, 
sir, to extenuate the matter. Gentlemen may cry Peace, 
peace ! but there is no peace ! The war is actually begun ! 
The next gale that sweeps from the north will bring to our 
ears the clash of resounding arms ! Our brethren are 
already in the field ! "Why stand we here idle ? What is 
it that gentlemen wish ? What would they have ? Is life 
so dear, or peace so sweet, as to be purchased at the price 
of chains and slavery ? Forbid it, Almighty God ! I 
know not what course others may take ; but as for me, 
give me liberty, or give me death ! — Patrick Henry (an 
American patriot, who distinguished himself by his speeches in 
favour of opposing Great Britain 1 at the breaking out of the 
revolutionary war). 



SPEECH (1753) FOR REPEALING THE ACT 
CALLED THE JEW T BILL. 

Mr. Speaker, — I see no occasion to enter at present into 
the merits of the bill we passed the last session for the 
naturalization of Jews ; because I am convinced, that, in 
in the present temper of the nation, not a single foreign 
Jew would think it expedient to take the benefit of that 
act ; and, therefore, the repealing of it is giving up 
nothing. A wise government will know when to yield as 
well as when to resist ; and there is no surer mark of 
littleness of mind in an administration than obstinacy in 
trifles. Public wisdom must, on some occasions, conde- 
scend to give way to popular folly, especially in a free 
country, where the humour of the people must be con- 
sidered as attentively as the humour of a king in an 
absolute monarchy. 



SELECTIONS IN PROSE. 157 

It has been, hitherto, the felicity of his Majesty's reign, 
that his subjects have enjoyed such a freedom from angry 
religious disputes, as has not been paralleled in any former 
times. The true Christian spirit of moderation, of charity, 
of universal benevolence, has prevailed in the people, has 
prevailed in the clergy of all ranks and degrees, instead of 
those narrow principles, those bigoted measures, that 
furious, that implacable, that ignorant zeal, which had often 
done so much hurt both to the church and the state. 
But, from the ill-understood, insignificant act of parliament 
which you are now moved to repeal, occasion has been 
taken to deprive us of this inestimable advantage. It 
behoves the piety, as well as the wisdom of Parliament, 
to disappoint their endeavours. The very worst mischief 
that can be done to religion, is to pervert it to the pur- 
poses of faction. Heaven and Hell are not more opposite 
than the benevolent spirit of the gospel, and the malignant 
spirit of party. The most impious wars ever made, were 
those called holy wars. He who hates another man for 
not being a Christian, or of his particular sect, is himself 
riot a Christian. Christianity, sir, breathes love, and 
peace, and goodwill to man. A temper conformable to 
the dictates of that holy religion has lately distinguished 
this nation ; and a glorious distinction it was ! But there 
is latent, at all times, in the minds of many, a spark of 
enthusiasm, which, if blown by the breath of a party, 
may, even when it seems quite extinguished, be suddenly 
revived, and raised to a flame. The act of last session, 
for naturalizing Jews, has very unexpectedly administered 
fuel to the flame. To what a height it may rise, if it 
should continue much longer, one cannot easily tell ; but, 
take away the fuel, and it will die of itself. 

The repealing of this act appears to be a reasonable and 
safe condescension ; but all beyond this would be dangerous 
weakness in government: it might open a door to the 
wildest enthusiasm, and to the most mischievous attacks 
of political disaffection working upon that enthusiasm. If 
you encourage and authorize it to fall on the synagogue 
it will go from thence to the meeting-house, and, in the 
end, to the palace. Let us be careful to check its further 
progress. The more zealous we are to support Christianity, 



153 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

the more vigilant should we be in maintaining toleration. 
If we bring persecution, we bring back the anti-Christian 
spirit of popery ; and, when the spirit is here, the whole 
system will soon follow. Toleration is the basis of all 
public quiet. It is a charter of freedom given to the mind, 
more valuable, I think, than that which secures our per- 
sons and estates. Indeed, they are inseparably connected ; 
for, where the mind is not free, where the conscience is 
enthralled, there is no freedom. Spiritual tyranny puts on 
the galling chains ; but civil tyranny is called in, to rivet 
and fix them. We see it in Spain, and many other coun- 
tries: we have formerly both seen and felt it in England. 
By the blessing of God, we are now delivered from all 
kinds of oppression. Let us take care that they may 
never return. Lord Lyttleton. 



SPEECH ON THE SECOND READING OF THE 
REFORM BILL, IN THE HOUSE OF LORDS. 

Oct. 7th, 1831. 

You stand, my Lords, on the brink of a great event; you 
are in the crisis of a whole nation's hopes and fears. An 
awful importance hangs over your decision. Pause ere 
you plunge ! There may not be any retreat ! It behoves 
you to shape your conduct by the mighty occasion. They 
tell you not to be afraid of personal consequences in dis- 
charging your duty ; I, too, would ask you to banish all 
fears ; but, above all, that most mischievous, the most 
despicable, the fear of being thought afraid. If you will not 
take counsel from me, take example from the statesmanlike 
conduct of the noble Duke ; while you also look back, as 
you may, with satisfaction on your own. He was told, and 
you were told, that the impatience of Ireland for equality 
of civil rights was partial, the clamour transient, likely to 
pass away with its temporary occasion ; and that yielding 
to it, would be conceding to intimidation. What, never- 
theless, did your Lordships do ? Your duty ! For you 
despised the cuckoo-note of the season, " not to be inti- 



SELECTIONS IN PROSE. 159 

midated." You granted all that the Irish demanded, and 
you saved your country. We stand in a truly critical 
position. Jf you reject the Bill through fear of being 
thought intimidated, we may lead the life of retirement 
and quiet, but the hearts of the millions of our fellow- 
citizens are gone for ever ; their affections are estranged ; 
we, and our order, and its privileges, are the objects of the 
people's hatred — as the only obstacles which stand between 
them and the gratification of their most passionate desire. 
The whole body of the aristocracy must expect to share 
this fate, and be exposed to feelings such as these ; for I 
hear it constantly said, that the Bill is rejected by all the 
aristocracy ; favour, and a good number of supporters, our 
adversaries allow it has among the people ; the ministers, 
too, are for it ; but the aristocracy say they, strenuously 
opposed it ; — I broadly deny this silly thoughtless assertion. 
"What ! my Lords, the aristocracy set themselves in a mass 
against the people ! They who sprang from the people — are 
inseparably connected with the people — are supported by 
the people — are the natural chiefs of the people! They 
set themselves against the people ; for whom the peers are 
ennobled, bishops consecrated, kings anointed : the people, 
to serve whom, Parliament itself has an existence; and 
without whom none of them could exist for an hour ? The 
assertion of unreflecting men is too monstrous to be 
endured. As a member of this House, I deny it with 
indignation ; I repel it with scorn, as a calumny upon us 
all. And yet are there those who, even within these 
walls, speak of the Bill's augmenting so much the strength 
of the democracy, as to endanger the other orders of the 
State ; and so they charge its authors with promoting 
anarchy and rapine. Why, my Lords, have its authors 
nothing to fear from democratic spoliation ? The fact is 
that there are members of the present cabinet who possess, 
one or two of them alone, far more property than any two 
administrations within my recollection, and all of them 
have ample wealth. I need hardly say, I include not 
myself, who have little or none. But even of myself I will 
say, that whatever I have depends on the stability of 
existing institutions, and it is as dear to me as the princely 
possessions of any amongst you. Permit me to say, that 



160 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

in becoming a member of your house, I staked my all on 
the aristocratic institutions of the State. I abandoned 
certain wealth, a large income, and much real power in the 
state, for an office of great trouble, heavy responsibility, 
and very uncertain duration. I say, I gave up substantial 
power for the shadow of it, and for distinction depending 
upon accident. I quitted the elevated station of representa- 
tive for Yorkshire, and a leading member of the Commons. 
I descended from a position quite lofty enough to gratify 
any man's ambition ; and my lot became bound up in the 
stability of this House. Then, have I not a right to throw 
myself on your justice, and to desire that you will not put 
in jeopardy all I have now left. My Lords, I do not dis- 
guise the intense solicitude which I feel for the event of 
this debate ; because I know full well that the peace of the 
country is involved in the issue. I cannot look without 
dismay at the rejection of the measure; but grievous as 
may be the consequences of a temporary defeat, temporary 
it can only be, for its ultimate, and even speedy success, 
is certain ; nothing can now stop it. Do not suffer your- 
selves to be persuaded, that even if the present ministers 
were driven from the helm, any one would steer you 
through the troubles that surround you, without reform. But 
our successors would take up the task in circumstances far 
less auspicious ; under them you would be fain to grant a 
bill, compared with which, the one we now proffer you is 
moderate indeed. Hear the parable of the Sibyl ; for it 
conveys a wise and wholesome matter. She now appears 
at your gate, and offers you mildly the volumes — the pre- 
cious volumes — of wisdom and peace: the price she asks is 
reasonable — to restore the franchise; which, without any 
bargain, you ought voluntarily to give. You refuse her 
terms — her moderate terms ; she darkens the porch no 
longer. But soon, for you cannot do without her wares, 
you call her back : again she comes, but with diminished 
measures ; the leaves of the book are in part torn away by 
lawless hands ; in parts defaced by characters of blood. 
But the prophetic maid has risen in her demands, it is 
Parliament by the year — it is vote by ballot — it is suffrage 
by the million ! From this you turn away indignant, and 
for the second time she departs. Beware of her third 



SELECTIONS IN PROSE. 161 

coming, for the treasure you must have ; and what price 
she may next demand who can tell ? It may even be the 
mace which rests upon that woolsack. V/hat may follow 
your course of obstinacy, if persisted in, I cannot take upon 
me to predict, nor do I wish to conjecture; but this I 
know full well, that as sure as man is mortal, and to err is 
human, justice deferred enhances the price at which you 
must purchase safety and peace; nor can you expect to 
gather in another crop, than they did who went before you, 
if you persevere in their utterly abominable husbandry of 
sowing industry and reaping rebellion. But among the 
awful considerations that now bow down my mind, there is 
one which stands pre-eminent above the rest. You are 
the highest judicature in the realm ; you sit here a judge, 
and decide all causes, civil and criminal, without appeal. 
It is the judge's first duty, never to pronounce sentence, in 
the most trifling case, without hearing. Will you make 
this the exception ? Are you really prepared to determine, 
but not to hear, the migbty cause upon which a nation's 
hopes and fears hang ? You are ! Then beware of your 
decision. Rouse not, I beseech you, a peace-loving but a 
resolute people ; alienate not from your body the affections 
of a whole empire. As your friend, as the friend of my 
order, as the friend of my country, as the faithful servant of 
the Sovereign, I counsel you to assist, with your uttermost 
efforts, in preserving the peace, and upholding and per- 
petuating the constitution. Therefore I pray and exhort 
you not to reject this measure, by all you hold most dear, 
by all the ties that bind every one of us to our common 
order, and our common country ; I solemnly adjure you — 
I warn you — I implore you — yea, on my bended knees, I 
supplicate you — Reject not this Bill. Lord Brougham. 



SPEECH FOR HAMILTON ROWAN. 

This paper, gentlemen, insists upon the necessity of eman- 
cipating the Catholics of Ireland, and that is charged as 
part of the libel. If they had waited another year — if 
they had kept this prosecution impending for another year — 
how much would remain for a jury to decide upon, I should 



162 



THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 



be at a loss to discover. It seems as if the progress of 
public information was eating away the ground of the pro- 
secution. Since the commencement of the prosecution, 
this part of the libel has unluckily received the sanction of 
the Legislature. In that interval, our Catholic brethren 
have obtained that admission, which it seems it was a libel 
to propose. In what way to account for this I am really at 
a loss. Have any alarms been occasioned by the emanci- 
pation of our Catholic brethren ? Has the bigoted ma- 
lignity of any individuals been crushed ? Or has the stability 
of the Government, or that of the country, been weakened ? 
Or is one million of subjects stronger than four millions ? 
Do you think that the benefit they received should be 
poisoned by the sting of vengeance ? If you think so, 
you must say to them — " You have demanded emancipation, 
and you have got it : but we abhor your persons ; we are 
outraged at your success ; and we will stigmatise, by a 
criminal prosecution, the adviser of that relief which you have 
obtained from the voice of your country." I ask you, do 
you think, as honest men, anxious for the public tranquillity, 
conscious that there are wounds not yet completely cica- 
trized, that you ought to speak this language, at this time, 
to men who are too much disposed to think, that in this 
very emancipation they have been saved from their own 
Parliament by the humanity of their sovereign ? Or do you 
wish to prepare them for the revocation of these impro- 
vident concessions ? Do you think it wise or humane, at 
this moment, to insult them, by sticking up in a pillory the 
man who dared to stand forth as their advocate ? I put it 
to your oaths : Do you think that a blessing of that kind 
— that a victory obtained by justice over bigotry and op- 
pression — should have a stigma cast upon it, by an igno- 
minious sentence upon men bold and honest enough to 
propose that measure ? — To propose the redeeming of 
religion from the abuses of the Church, the reclaiming of 
three millions of men from bondage, and giving liberty to 
all who had a right to demand it ; giving, I say, in the 
so-much-censured words of this paper, " Universal Eman- 
cipation ! " I speak in the spirit of the British law, which 
makes liberty commensurate with, and inseparable from, 
British soil — which proclaims, even to the stranger and 



SELECTIONS IN PROSE, 163 

sojourner, the moment he sets his foot on British earth, 
that the ground on which he treads is holy, and consecrated 
by the genius of Universal Emancipation. No matter in 
what language his doom may have been pronounced ; — no 
matter in what complexion incompatible with freedom, an 
Indian or an African sun may have burned upon him ; — no 
matter in what disastrous battle his liberty may have been 
cloven down ; — no matter with what solemnities he may 
have been devoted upon the altar of slavery : the first 
moment he touches the sacred soil of Britain, the altar and 
the god sink together in the dust; his soul walks abroad in 
her own majesty ; his body swells beyond the measure of 
his chains, that burst from around him ; and he stands 
redeemed, regenerated, and disenthralled, by the irresistible 
genius of Universal Emancipation. Curran. 



164 



DIALOGUES. 



ARTHUR AND HUBERT.— King John. 

Arth. Good morrow, Hubert. 

Hub. Good morrow, little prince. 

Arth. As little prince (having so great a title 
To be more prince), as may be. — You are sad. 

Hub. Indeed, I have been merrier. 

Arth. Mercy on me ! 
Methinks, no body should be sad but I : 
Yet, I remember, when I was in France, 
Young gentlemen would be as sad as night, 
Only for wantonness. By my Christendom, 
So I were out of prison, and kept sheep, 
I should be as merry as the day is long ; 
And so I would be here, but that I doubt 
My uncle practises more harm to me : 
He is afraid of me, and I of him : 
Is it my fault that I was Geoffrey's son ? 
No, indeed, is't not ; And I would to heaven, 
I were your son, so you would love me, Hubert. 

Hub. If I talk to him, with his innocent prate 
He will awake my mercy, which lies dead : 
Therefore I will be sudden, and despatch. [Aside. 

Arth. Are you sick, Hubert ? you look pale to-day : 
In sooth, I would you were a little sick ; 
That I might sit all night, and watch with you: 
I warrant, I love you more than you do me. 

Hub. His words do take possession of my bosom. — 
Read here, young Arthur. [Shewing a paper."} How now, 
foolish rheum ? [Aside. 

Turning dispiteous torture out of door ! 
I must be brief; lest resolution drop 
Out at mine eyes, in tender womanish tears.— 
Can you not read it ? is it not fair writ ? 



DIALOGUES. ]65 

Arth. Too fairly, Hubert, for so foul effect: 
Must you with hot irons burn out both mine eyes ? 

Hub. Young boy, I must. 

Arth. And will you ? 

Hub. And I will. 

Arth. Have you the heart ? When your head did but 
ache, 
I knit my handkerchief about your brows, 
(The best I had, a princess wrought it me,) 
And I did never ask it you again : 
And with my hand at midnight held your head ; ' 

And, like the watchful minutes to the hour, 
Still and anon cheered up the heavy time ; 
Saying, What lack you ? and, Where lies your grief? 
Or, What good love may I perform for you ? 
Many a poor man's son would have lain still, 
And ne'er have spoke a loving word to you ; 
But you at your sick service had a prince. 
Nay, you may think, my love was crafty love, 
And call it, cunning ; Do, an if you will : 
If heaven be pleased that you must use me ill, 
Why, then you must. — Will you put out mine eyes ? 
These eyes that never did, nor never shall, 
So much as frown on you ? 

Hub. I have sworn to do it ; 
And with hot irons must I burn them out. 

Arth. Ah, none, but in this iron age, would do it ! 
The iron of itself, though heat red-hot, 
Approaching near these eyes, would drink my tears, 
And quench his fiery indignation, 
Even in the matter of mine innocence : 
Nay, after that, consume away in rust, 
But for containing fire to harm mine eye. 
Are you more stubborn-hard than hammer'd iron ? 
An if an angel should have come to me, 
And told me, Hubert should put out mine eyes, 
I would not have believ'dhim. No tongue, but Hubert's — 

Hub. Come forth. [Stamps. 

Enter Attendants, with Cords, Irons, etc. 
Do as I bid you, do. 



166 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Arth. O save me, Hubert, save me ! my eyes are out, 
Even with the fierce looks of these bloody men. 

Hub. Give me the iron, I say, and bind him here. 

Arth. Alas, what need you be so boist'rous-rough ? 
I will not struggle, I will stand stone-still. 
For heaven's sake, Hubert, let me not be bound ! 
Nay, hear me, Hubert ! drive these men away, 
And I will sit as quiet as a lamb ; 
I will not stir, nor wince, nor speak a word, 
Nor look upon the iron angerly : 
Thrust but these men away, and I'll forgive you, 
Whatever torment you do put me to. 

Hub. Go, stand within ; let me alone with him. 
1 Attend. I am best pleased to be from such a deed. 

[Exeunt Attendants. 

Arth. Alas ! I then have chid away my friend ; 
He hath a stern look, but a gentle heart : — 
Let him come back, that his compassion may 
Give life to yours. 

Hub. Come, boy, prepare yourself. 

Arth. Is there no remedy ? 

Hub. None, but to lose your eyes. 

Arth. O heaven ! — that there were but a mote in yours, 
A grain, a dust, a gnat, a wand'ring hair, 
Any annoyance in that precious sense ! 
Then, feeling what small things are boist'rous there,. 
Your vile intent must needs seem horrible. 

Hub. Is this your promise ? go to, hold your tongue. 

Arth. Hubert, the utterance of a brace of tongues 
Must needs want pleading for a pair of eyes : 
Let me not hold my tongue ; let me not, Hubert ! 
Or, Hubert, if you will, cut out my tongue, 
So I may keep mine eyes ; O spare mine eyes ; 
Though to no use, but still to look on you ! 
Lo, by my troth, the instrument is cold, 
And would not harm me. 

Hub. I can heat it, boy. 

Arth. No, in good sooth ; the fire is dead with grief. 
Being create for comfort, to be us'd 
In undeserved extremes : See else yourself; 
There is no malice in this burning coal ; 



DIALOGUES. 167 

The breath of heaven hath blown his spirit out, 
And strew'd repentant ashes on his head. 

Hub. But with my breath I can revive it, boy. 

Arth. And if you do, you will but make it blush, 
And glow with shame of your proceedings, Hubert : 
Nay, it, perchance, will sparkle in your eyes ; 
And, like a dog that is compell'd to fight, 
Snatch at his master that doth tarre him on. 
All things, that you should use to do me wrong, 
Deny their office : only you do lack 
That mercy, which fierce fire and iron extends, 
Creatures of note, for mercy-lacking uses. 

Hub. Well, see to live ; 1 will not touch thine eyes 
For all the treasure that thine uncle owes : 
Yet am I sworn, and I did purpose, boy, 
With this same very iron to burn them out. 

Arth. O now you look like Hubert ! all this while 
You w T ere disguised. 

Hub. Peace: no more. Adieu; 
Your uncle must not know but you are dead : 
I'll fill these dogged spies with false reports. 
And, pretty child, sleep doubtless, and secure, 
That Hubert, for the wealth of all the world, 
Will not offend thee. 

Arth. O heaven !■ — I thank you, Hubert. 

Hub. Silence • no more : Go closely in with me ; 
Much danger do I undergo for thee. [Exeunt. 
Shakesperb. 

BRUTUS AND CASSIUS.— Julius Cjssar. 

First Selection. 

Cas. Will you go see the order of the course ? 

Bru. Not I. 

Cas. I pray you, do. 

Bru. I am not gamesome : I do lack some part 
Of that quick spirit that is in Anthony. 
Let me not hinder, Cassius, your desires ; 
I'll leave you. 

Cas. Brutus, I do observe you now of late: 
I have not from your eyes that gentleness, 
And show of love, as I was wont to have : 



168 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

You bear too stubborn and too strange a hand 
Over your friend that loves you. 

Bru. Cassius, 
Be not deceived if I have veiled my look, 
I turn the trouble of my countenance 
Merely upon myself. — Vexed I am, 
Of late, with passions of some difference, 
Conceptions only proper to myself, 
Which give some soil, perhaps, to my behaviours : 
But let not therefore my good friends be grieved; 
(Among which number, Cassius, be you one) ; 
Nor construe any further my neglect, 
Than that poor Brutus, with himself at war, 
Forgets the shows of love to other men. 

Cas. Then, Brutus, I have much mistook your passion ; 
By means whereof this breast of mine hath buried 
Thoughts of great value, worthy cogitations. 
Tell me, good Brutus, can you see your face ? 

Bru. No, Cassius ; for the eye sees not itself, 
But' by reflection, by some other things. 

Cas. 'Tisjust: 
And it is very much lamented, Brutus, 
That you have no such mirrors as will turn 
Your hidden worthiness into your eye, 
That you might see your shadow. — I have heard, 
Where many of the best respect in Rome, 
(Except immortal Caesar), speaking of Brutus, 
And groaning underneath this age's yoke, 
Have wished that noble Brutus had his eyes. — 

Bru. Into what dangers would you lead me, Cassius, 
That you would have me seek into myself 
For that which is not in me ? 

Cas. Therefore, good Brutus, be prepared to hear : 
And, since you know you cannot see yourself, 
So well as by reflection, I, your glass, 
Will modestly discover to yourself 
That of yourself which you yet know not of. 
And be not jealous on me, gentle Brutus ; 
Were 1 a common laugher, or did use 
So stale with ordinary oaths my love 
To every new protester ; If you know 



DIALOGUES. 169 

That I do fawn on men, and hug them hard, 
And after scandal them ; or if you know 
That I profess myself in banqueting 
To all the rout, then hold me dangerous. 

Bru. What means this shouting ? I do fear the people 
Choose Caesar for their king. 

Cas. Aj, do you fear it ? 
Then I must think you would not have it so. 

Bru. I would not, Cassius ; yet I love him well : — 
But wherefore do you hold me here so long ? 
What is it that you would impart to me ? 
If it be aught toward the general good, 
Set honour in one eye and death i' the other, 
And I will look on both indifferently : 
For, let the gods so speed me as I love 
The name of honour more than I fear death. 

Cas. I know that virtue to be in you, Brutus, 
As well as I do know your outward favour. 
Well, honour, is the subject of my story. — 
I cannot tell what you and other men 
Think of this life ; but, for my single self, 
I had as lief not be, as live to be 
In awe of such a thing as I myself. 
I was born free as Caesar ; so were you ; 
We both have fed as well ; and we can both 
Endure the winter's cold as well as he: 
For once, upon a raw and gusty day, 
The troubled Tiber chafing with her shores, 
Caesar said to me, " Dar'st thou, Cassius, now 
Leap in with me into this angry flood, 
And swim to yonder point?'' — Upon the word, 
Accoutred as I was, I plunged in, 
And bade him follow : so, indeed, he did, — 
The torrent roar'd ; and we did buffet it 
With lusty sinews ; throwing it aside 
And stemming it with hearts of controversy. 
But ere we could arrive the point proposed, 
Caesar cried, " Help me, Cassius, or I sink." 
I, as iEneas, our great ancestor, 
Did from the flames of Troy upon his shoulder 
The old Anchises bear, so, from the waves of Tiber 



170 



THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 



Did I the tired Caesar : and this man 

Is now become a god ; and Cassius is 

A wretched creature, and must bend his body, 

If Caesar carelessly but nod on him. 

He had a fever when he was in Spain, 

And, when the fit was on him, I did mark 

How he did shake : 'tis true, this god did shake ; 

His coward lips did from their colour fly ; 

And that same eye whose bend doth awe the world 

Did lose his lustre : I did hear him groan : 

Ay, and that tongue of his that bade the Romans 

Mark him, and write his speeches in their books, 

Alas ! it cried, " Give me some drink, Titinius," 

As a sick girl. Ye gods, it doth amaze me, 

A man of such a feeble temper should 

So get the start of the majestic world, 

And bear the palm alone. 

Bru. Another general shout ! 
I do believe that these applauses are 
For some new honours that are heaped on Caesar. 

Cas. Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow world, 
Like a Colossus; and we petty men 
Walk under his huge legs, and peep about 
To find ourselves dishonourable graves. 
Men at some time are masters of their fates : 
The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, 
But in ourselves, that we are underlings. 
Brutus, and Caesar : What should be in that Caesar ? 
Why should that name be sounded more than yours ? 
Write them together, your's is as fair a name ; 
Sound them, it doth become the mouth as well ; 
Weigh them, it is as heavy ; conjure with them, 
Brutus will start a spirit as soon as Caesar. 
Now in the names of all the gods at once, 
Upon what meat doth this our Caesar feed, 
That he is grown so great ? Age thou art shamed ! 
Rome, thou hast lost the breed of noble bloods ! 
When went there by an age, since the great flood, 
But it was famed with more than with one man ? 
When could they say, till now, that talked of Rome, 
That her wide walls encompass'd but one man ? 



DIALOGUES. 171 

Now is it Rome indeed, and room enough, 
When there is in it but one only man. 
Oh you and I have heard our fathers say, 
There was a Brutus once that would have brooked 
The eternal devil to keep his state in Rome, 
As easily as a king. 

Bru. That you do love me, I am nothing jealous ; 
What you would work me to, I have some aim ; 
How have I thought of this, and of these times, 
I shall recount hereafter ; for this present, 
I would not, so with love I might entreat you, 
Be any further moved. — What you have said, 
I will consider ; what you have to say, 
I will with patience hear ; and find a time 
Both meet to hear and answer such high things. 
Till then, my noble friend, chew upon this ; 
Brutus had rather be a villager, 
Than to repute 'himself a son of Rome 
Under these hard conditions as this time 
Is like to lay upon us. 

Cas. I am glad that my weak words 
Have struck but thus much show of fire from Brutus. 

Shakespere. 



BRUTUS AND CASSIUS.— Julius C^sar. 

Second Selection. 

Cas. That you have wrong' d me doth appear in this : 
You have condemned and noted Lucius Pella, 
For taking bribes here of the Sardians; 
Wherein my letters, praying on his side, 
Because I knew the man, were slighted off. 

Bru. You wronged yourself to write in such a case. 

Cas. In such a time as this it is not meet 
That every nice offence should bear his comment. 

Bru. Let me tell you, Cassius, you yourself 
Are much condemned to have an itching palm ; 
To sell and mart your offices for gold, 
To undeservers. 

Cas. I an itching palm ? 
You know that you are Brutus that speak this, 



172 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Or, by the gods, this speech were else your last. 

Bru. The name of Cassius honours this corruption, 
And chastisement doth therefore hide his head. 

Cas. Chastisement ! 

Bru. Remember March, the ides of March remember! 
Did not great Julius bleed for justice' sake ? 
What villain touched his body, that did stab, 
And not for justice ? What, shall one of us, 
That struck the foremost man of all this world, 
But for supporting robbers, shall we now 
Contaminate our fingers with base bribes, 
And sell the mighty space of our large honours 
For so much trash as may be grasped thus ? 
I had rather be a dog, and bay the moon, 
Than such a Roman. 

Cas. Brutus, bay not me ; 
I'll not endure it : you forget yourself, 
To hedge me in ; I am a soldier, I, 
Older in practice, abler than yourself, 
To make conditions. 

Bru. Go to ; you are not, Cassius. 

Cas. I am. 

Bru. I say you are not. 

Cas. Urge me no more, I shall forget myself; 
Have mind upon your health, tempt me no further. 

Bru. Away, slight man! 

Cas. Is't possible ? 

Bru. Hear me, for I will speak. 
Must I give way and room to your rash choler ? 
Shall I be frighted when a madman stares ? 

Cas. O ye gods ! ye gods ! must I endure all this ? 

Bru. All this ? ay, more : Fret, till your proud heart 
break ; 
Go, show your slaves how choleric you are, 
And make your bondmen tremble. Must I budge ? 
Must I observe you ? Must I stand and crouch 
Under your testy humour ? By the gods, 
You shall digest the venom of your spleen, 
Though it do split you ! for, from this day forth, 
I'll use you for my mirth, yea, for my laughter, 
When you are waspish. 



DIALOGUES. 173 

Cas. Is it come to this ? 

Bru. You say, you are a better soldier : 
Let it appear so ; make your vaunting true, 
And it shall please me well : For mine own part, 
I shall be glad to learn of noble men. 

Cas. You wrong me every way ; you wrong me, Brutus; 
I said an elder soldier, not a better : 
Did I say better ? 

Bru. If you did, I care not. 

Cas. When Csesar lived he durst not thus have moved me. 

Bru. Peace, peace ; you durst not so have tempted him. 

Cas. I durst not ? 

Bru. No. 

Cas. What ! durst not tempt him ? 

Bru. For your life you durst not. 

Cas. Do not presume too much upon my love ; 
I may do that I shall be sorry for. 

Bru. You have done that you should be sorry for. 
There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats ; 
For I am armed so strong in honesty, 
That they pass by me as the idle wind, 
Which I respect not. I did send to you 
For certain sums of gold, which you denied me ;— 
For I can raise no money by vile means : 
By heaven, I had rather coin my heart, 
And drop my blood for drachmas, than to wring 
From the hard hands of peasants their vile trash, 
By any indirection ! I did send 
To you for gold to pay my legions, 
Which you denied me : Was that done like Cassius ? 
Should I have answered Caius Cassius so ? 
When Marcus Brutus grows so covetous, 
To lock such rascal counters from his friends, 
Be ready, gods, with all your thunderbolts, 
Dash him to pieces ! 

Cas. I denied you not. 

Bru. You did. 

Cas. I did not: — he was but a fool 
That brought my answer back. — Brutus hath rived my 

heart : 
A friend should bear his friend's infirmities, 



174 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

But Brutus makes mine greater than they are. 

Bru. I do not, till you practise them on me. 

Cas. You love me not. 

Bru. I do not like your faults. 

Cas. A friendly eye could never see such faults. 

Bru. A flatterer's would not, though they do appear 
As huge as high Olympus. 

Cas. Come, Antony, and young Octavius, come, 
Revenge yourselves alone on Cassius, 
For Cassius is aweary of the world : 
Hated by one he loves ; braved by his brother ; 
Checked like a bondman ; all his faults observed, 
Set in a note-book, learned and conned by rote, 
To cast into my teeth. Oh, I could weep 
My spirit from mine eyes ! — There is my dagger, 
And here my naked breast ; within, a heart 
Dearer than Plutus' mine, richer than gold : 
If that thou be'st a Roman, take it forth ; 
I, that denied thee gold, will give my heart: 
Strike as thou didst at Csesar ; for, I know, 
When thou didst hate him worst thou lovedst him better 
Than ever thou lovedst Cassius. 

Bru. Sheath your dagger : 
Be angry when you will, it shall have scope ; 
Do what you will, dishonour shall be humour. 
O Cassius, you are yoked with a lamb 
That carries anger as the flint bears fire ; 
Who, much enforced, shows a hasty spark, 
And straight is cold again. 

Cas. Hath Cassius lived 
To be but mirth and laughter to his Brutus, 
When grief, and blood ill-temper'd, vexeth him ? 

Bru. When I spoke that, I was ill-tempered too. 

Cas. Do you confess so much ? Give me your hand. 

Bru. And my heart too. 

Cas. O Brutus ! — 

Bru. What's the matter ? 

Cas. Have you not love enough to bear with me, 
When that rash humour which my mother gave me 
Makes me forgetful ? 

Bru. Yes, Cassius ; and from henceforth, 



DIALOGUES. 175 

When you are over-earnest with your Brutus, 
He '11 think your mother chides, and leave you so. 

Shakespere. 

CORIOLANUS AND AUFIDIUS.— Coriolanus. 

Cor. I plainly, Tullus, by your looks perceive 
You disapprove my conduct. 

Auf. I mean not to assail thee with the clamour 
Of loud reproaches and the war of words ; 
But, pride apart, and all that can pervert 
The light of steady reason, here to make 
A candid, fair proposal. 

Cor. Speak, I hear thee. 

Auf. I need not tell thee, that I have performed 
My utmost promise. Thou hast been protected ; 
Hast had thy amplest, most ambitious wish ; 
Thy wounded pride is healed, thy dear revenge 
Completely sated ; and to crown thy fortune 
At the same time, thy peace with Rome restored. 
Thou art no more a Volscian, but a Roman ; 
Return, return; thy duty calls upon thee 
Still to protect the city thou hast saved ; 
It yet may be in danger from our arms ; 
Retire : I will take care thou may'st with safety. 

Cor. With safety ? Heavens ! — and thinkest thou Corio- 
lanus 
Will stoop to thee for safety ? — No : my safeguard 
Is in myself, a bosom void of fear. — 
O 'tis an act of cowardice and baseness 
To seize the very time my hands are fettered 
By the strong chain of former obligation, 
The safe, sure moment to insult me. — Gods ! 
Were I now free, as on that day I was, 
When at Corioli I tamed thy pride, 
This had not been. 

Auf. Thou speakest the truth : it had not. 
O for that time again ! Propitious gods, 
If you will bless me, grant it ! Know, for that, 
For that dear purpose, [ have now proposed 
Thou shouldst return ; I pray thee, Marcius, do it ; 
And we shall meet again on nobler terms. 



176 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Cor. Till I have cleared my honour in your council, 
And proved before them all, to thy confusion 
The falsehood of thy charge ; as soon in battle 
I would before thee fly, and howl for mercy, 
As quit the station they 've assigned me here. 

Auf Thou canst not hope acquittal from the Volscians. 

Cor. I do: — Nay, more, expect their approbation, 
Their thanks. I will obtain them such a peace 
As thou durst never ask ; a perfect union 
Of their whole nation with imperial Rome, 
In all her privileges, all her rights ; 
By the just gods, I will. — What wouldst thou more ? 

Auf. What would I more, proud Roman ? This I 
would — 
Fire the cursed forest, where these Roman wolves 
Haunt and infest their nobler neighbours round them ; 
Extirpate from the bosom of this land 
A false, perfidious people, who, beneath 
The mask of freedom, are a combination 
Against the liberty of human kind; 
The genuine seed of outlaws and of robbers. 

Cor. The seed of gods. — 'Tis not for thee, vain boaster ,- 
'Tis not for such as thou — so often spared 
By her victorious sword, to speak of Rome, 
But with respect, and awful veneration. — 
Whate'er her blots, whate'er her giddy factions 
There is more virtue in one single year 
Of Roman story, than your Volscian annals 
Can boast through all their creeping, dark duration. 

Auf. I thank thy rage : — This full displays the traitor. 

\_Cor. Traitor ! How now ? 

Auf Ay, traitor, Marcius. 

Cor. Marcius ! 

Auf Ay, Marcius, Caius Marcius : dost thou think 
I'll grace thee with that robbery, thy stolen name, 
Coriolanus, in Corioli ? 

You lords, and heads of the state, perfidiously 
He has betrayed your business, and given up, 
For certain drops of salt, your city Rome, — 
I say, your city, — to his wife and mother ; 
Breaking his oath and resolution like 



DIALOGUES. 177 

A twist of rotten silk ; never admitting 
Counsel of the war : but at his nurse's tears 
He whined and roared away your victory; 
That pages blushed at him, and men of heart 
Looked wondering at each other. 

Cor. Hearest thou, Mars? 

Auf. Name not the god, thou boy of tears. 

Cor. Measureless liar, thou hast made my heart . 
Too great for what contains it. Boy ! O slave ! — 
Cut me to pieces, Volsces ; men and lads, 
Stain all your edges on me. Boy ! False hound ! 
If you have writ your annals true, 'tis there, 
That, like an eagle in a dove-cot, I 
Fluttered your Volscians in Corioli. 
Alone I did it. Boy !] — But let us part ; 
Lest my rash hand should do a hasty deed 
My cooler thought forbids. 

Auf. I court 
The worst thy sword can do ; while thou from me 
Hast nothing to expect but sore destruction ; 
Quit then this hostile camp : once more I tell thee, 
Thou art not here one single hour in safety. 

[Cor. O that I had thee in the field, 
With six Aufidiuses, or more, thy tribe, 
To use my lawful sword !] Thomson. 

H^IT The two passages in the above scene enclosed between 

brackets [ ] are extracted from Shakespere's " CoriolanusT 



EDWARD AND WARWICK.— Earl of Warwick. 

Edw. Let me have no intruders ; above all, 
Keep Warwick from my sight. 

Enter Warwick. 

War. Behold him here ; 
No welcome guest, it seems, unless I ask 
My Lord of Suffolk's leave. There was. a time 
When Warwick wanted not his aid to gain 
Admission here. 

Edw. There was a time, perhaps, 
When Warwick more desired, and more deserved it. 
i 5 



178 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

War. Never : I've been a foolish faithful slave ; 
All my best years, the morning of my life, 
Hath been devoted to your service : what 
Are now the fruits ? Disgrace and infamy ! 
My spotless name, which never yet the breath 
Of calumny had tainted, made the mock 
For foreign fools to carp at : but 'tis fit 
Who trust in princes, should be thus rewarded. 

Edw. I thought, my lord, I had full well repaid 
Your services with honours, wealth, and power 
Unlimited ; thy all- directing hand 
Guided in secret every latent wheel 
Of government, and moved the whole machine : 
Warwick was all in all, and powerless Edward 
Stood like a cipher in the great account. 

War. Who gave that cipher worth, and seated thee 
On England's throne ? Thy undistinguished name 
Had rotted in the dust from whence it sprang 
And mouldered in oblivion, had not Warwick 
Dug from its sordid mine the useless ore, 
And stamped it with a diadem. Thou know'st 
This wretched country, doom'd, perhaps, like Rome, 
To fall by its own self- destroying hand, 
Tost for so many years in the rough sea 
Of civil discord, but for me had perished. 
In that distressful hour I seized the helm, 
Bade the rough waves subside in peace, and steered 
Your shattered vessel safe into the harbour. 
You may despise, perhaps, that useless aid 
Which you no longer want ; but know, proud youth, 
He who forgets a friend deserves a foe. 

Edw. Know too, reproach for benefits received 
Pays every debt, and cancels obligation. 

War. Why, that indeed is frugal honesty ; 
A thrifty saving knowledge ; when the debt 
Grows burdensome, and cannot be discharged, 
A sponge will wipe out all and cost you nothing. 

Edw. When you have counted o'er the numerous train 
Of mighty gifts your bounty lavished on me, 
You may remember next the injuries 
Which I have done you : let me know them all, 



DIALOGUES. 179 

And I will make you ample satisfaction. 

War. Thou can'st not : thou hast robbed me of a jewel, 
It is not in thy power to restore : 
I was the first, shall future annals say, 
That broke the sacred bond of public trust 
And mutual confidence ; ambassadors, 
In after times, mere instruments, perhaps, 
Of venal statesmen, shall recall my name 
To witness, that they want not an example, 
And plead my guilt, to sanctify their own. 
Amidst the herd of mercenary slaves 
That haunt your court, could none be found but Warwick, 
To be the shameless herald of a lie ? 

Edw. And wouldst thou turn the vile reproach on me ? 
If I have broke my faith, and stained the name 
Of England, thank thy own pernicious counsels 
That urged me to it, and extorted from me 
A cold consent to what my heart abhorred. 

War. I have been abused, insulted, and betrayed ; 
My injured honour cries aloud for vengeance, 
Her wounds will never close ! 

Edw. These gusts of passion 
Will but inflame them : if I have been right 
Informed, my lord, besides these dangerous scars 
Of bleeding honour, you have other wounds 
As deep, though not so fatal ; such, perhaps, 
As none but fair Elizabeth can cure. 
War. Elizabeth! 

Edw. Nay, start not ; I have cause 
To wonder most; I little thought, indeed, 
When Warwick told me I might learn to love, 
He was himself so able to instruct me: 
But I've discovered all — 

War. And so have I ; 
Too well I know thy breach of friendship here, 
Thy fruitless base endeavours to supplant me. 

Edw. I scorn it, sir. — Elizabeth hath charms, 
And I have equal right with you to admire them : 
Nor see I aught so god-like in the form, 
So all-commanding, in the name of Warwick, 
That he alone should revel in the charms 



180 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Of beauty, and monopolize perfection. 
I knew not of your love. 

War. By heaven, 'tis false ! 
You knew it all, and meanly took occasion, 
Whilst I was busied in the noble office, 
Your grace thought fit to honour me withal, 
To tamper with a weak unguarded woman, 
To bribe her passions high, and basely steal 
A treasure which your kingdom could not purchase. 

Edw. How knew you that ? But be it as it may, 
I had a right : nor will I tamely yield 
My claim to happiness, the privilege 
To choose the partner of my throne and bed ; 
It is a branch of my prerogative — 

War. Prerogative ! what's that ? the boast of tyrants ; 
A borrowed jewel, glittering in the crown, 
With specious lustre, lent but to betray : 
You had it, sir, and hold it — from the people. — 

Edw. And therefore do I prize it ; I would guard 
Their liberties, and they shall strengthen mine ; 
But when proud Faction, and her rebel crew, 
Insult their sovereign, trample on his laws, 
And bid defiance to his power, the people, 
In justice to themselves, will then defend 
His cause, and vindicate the rights they gave. 

War. Go to your darling people then ; for soon, 
If I mistake not, 't will be needful ; try 
Their boasted zeal, and see if one of them 
Will dare to lift up his arm in your cause, 
If I forbid them. 

Edw. Is it so, my lord ? 
Then mark my words: I've been your slave too long, 
And you have ruled me with a rod of iron. 
But henceforth know, proud peer, I am thy master, 
And will be so ; the king who delegates 
His power to others' hands, but ill deserves 
The crown he wears. 

War. Look well then to your own ; 
It sits but loosely on your head ; for know, 
The man who injured Warwick, never passed 
Unpunished yet. 



DIALOGUES. 181 

Echv. Nor he who threatened Edward — 
You may repent it, sir — my guards there — seize 
This traitor, and convey him to the tower; 
There let him learn obedience. 

Southern. 



GLOSTER AND HASTINGS.— Jane Shore. 

Glos. My lord, you 're well encounter'd : here has been 
A fair petitioner this morning with us : 
Believe me, she has won me much to pity her : 
Alas ! her gentle nature was not made 
To buffet with adversity. I told her 
How worthily her cause you had befriended ; 
How much for your good sake we meant to do, 
That you had spoke, and all things should be well. 

Hast. Your highness binds me ever to your service. 

Glos. You know your friendship is most potent with us, 
And shares our power. But*of this enough, 
For we have other matter for your ear. 
The state is out of tune ; distracting fears, 
And jealous doubts, jar in our public counsels ; 
Amidst the wealthy city murmurs rise, 
Loud railings, and reproach on those that rule, 
With open scorn of government: hence credit, 
And public trust 'twixt man and man, are broke. 
The golden streams of commerce are withheld, 
Which fed the wants of needy hinds and artisans, 
Who therefore curse the great, and threat rebellion. 

Hast. The testy knaves are over-run with ease, 
As plenty ever is the nurse of faction. 
If, in good days like these, the headstrong herd 
Grow madly wanton, and repine, it is 
Because the reins of power are held too slack ; 
And reverend authority of late 
Has worn a face of mercy more than justice. 

Glos. Beshrew my heart ; but you have well divined 
The source of these disorders. Who can wonder 
If riot and misrule o'erturn the realm, 
When the crown sits upon a baby brow ? 
Plainly to speak ; hence comes the general cry, 



182 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

And sum of all complaint : 'Twill ne'er be well 
With England (thus they talk) while children govern. 

Hast. 'Tis true the King is young ; but what of that ? 
We feel no want of Edward's riper years, 
While Gloster's valour and most princely wisdom 
So well supply our infant sovereign's place, 
His youth's support, and guardian to his throne. 

Glos. The council (much I'm bound to thank 'em for it) 
Have placed a pageant sceptre in my hand, 
Barren of power, and subject to control; 
Scorned by my foes, and useless to my friends. 

worthy lord ! were mine the rule indeed, 

1 think I should not suffer rank offence 
At large to lord it in the commonweal ; 

Nor would the realm be rent by discord thus, 
Thus fear and doubt, betwixt disputed titles. 

Hast. Of this I am to learn ; as not supposing 
A doubt like this — 

Glos, Aj, marry, but there is — 
And that of much concern. Have you not heard 
How, on a late occasion, Dr. Shaw 
Has moved the people much about the lawfulness 
Of Edward's issue ? 

Hast. Ill befall 
Such meddling priests, who kindle up confusion, 
And vex the quiet world with their vain scruples. 
When shall our long- divided land have rest, 
If every peevish, moody malcontent 
Shall set the senseless rabble in an uproar, 
Fright them with dangers, and perplex their brains, 
Each day, with some fantastic giddy change ? 

Glos. What if some patriot, for the public good, 
Should vary from your scheme, new mould the state ? 

Hast. Curse on the innovating hand attempts it ! 
Remember him, the villain, righteous heaven, 
In the great day of vengeance. Blast the traitor, 
And his pernicious counsels, who, for wealth, 
For power, the pride of greatness, or revenge, 
Would plunge his native land in civil wars ! 

Glos. You go too far, my lord. 

Hast. Your highness' pardon — 



DIALOGUES. 183 

Have we so soon forgot those days of ruin, 

When York and Lancaster drew forth their battles ; 

And desolation covered all the land : 

Who can remember this, and not, like me, 

Here vow to sheath a dagger in his heart, 

Whose cursed ambition would renew those horrors, 

And set once more that scene of blood before us ? 

Glos. How now ! so hot ! 

Hast. So brave, and so resolved. 

Glos. Is then, our friendship of so little moment, 
That you could arm your hand against my life ? 

Hast. I hope your highness does not think I mean it ; 
No., heaven forefend that e'er your princely person 
Should come within the scope of my resentment. 

Glos. O noble Hastings ! Nay, I must embrace you : 
By holy Paul, you 're a right honest man ! 
For me, I ask no more than honour gives, 
To think me yours, and rank me with your friends. 

Hast. Accept what thanks a grateful heart should pay. 

princely Gloster, judge me not ungentle, 
Of manners rude and insolent of speech, 
If, when the public safety is in question, 

My zeal flows warm and eager from my tongue. 

Glos. Enough of this : to deal in wordy compliment 
Is much against the plainness of my nature : 

1 judge you by myself, a clear true spirit, 
And, as such, once more join you to my bosom. 
Farewell, and be my friend. " 

Rowe. 



GUSTAVUS AND CRISTIERN. 

Crist. Tell me, Gustavus, tell me why is this 
That, as a stream diverted from the banks 
Of smooth obedience, thou hast drawn those men 
Upon a dry unchannelled enterprise, 
To turn their inundation ? Are the lives 
Of my misguided people held so light, 
That thus thou'dst push them on the keen rebuke 
Of guarded majesty; where justice waits, 



184 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

All awful and resistless, to assert 

Th' impervious rights, the sanctitude of kings, 

And blast rebellion ! 

Gus. Justice, sanctitude, 
And rights ! O patience ! Rights ! what rights, thou 

tyrant ! 
Yes, if perdition be the rule of power 
If wrongs give right, O then, supreme in mischief, 
Thou wert the lord, the monarch of the world ! 
Too narrow for thy claim. But if thou think'st 
That crowns are vilely propertied, like coin, 
To be the means, the specialty of lust, 
And sensual attribution ; if thou think'st 
That empire is of titled birth or blood • 
That nature, in the proud behalf of one, 
Shall disenfranchise all her lordly race, 
And bow her general issue to the yoke 
Of private domination; then, thou proud one, 
Here know me for thy king. Howe'er, be told, 
Not claim hereditary, not the trust 
Of frank election ; 

Not even the high anointing hand of heaven, 
Can authorise oppression, give a law 
For lawless power, wed faith to violation, 
On reason build misrule, or justly bind 
Allegiance to injustice. Tyranny 
Absolves all faith ; and who invades our rights 
Howe'er his own commence,- can never be 
But a usurper. But for thee, for thee 
There is no name. Thou hast abjured mankind, 
Dashed safety from thy bleak, unsocial side, 
And wag'd wild war with universal nature. 

Cris. Licentious traitor ! thou canst talk it largely. 
Who made thee umpire of the rights of kings, 
And power, prime attribute — as on thy tongue 
The poise of battle lay, and arms of force, 
To throw defiance in the front of duty ? 
Look round, unruly boy ! Thy battle comes 
Like raw disjointed mustering, feeble wrath, 
A war of waters, borne against the rock 



DIALOGUES. 185 

Of our firm continent, to fume, and chafe, 
And shiver in the toil. 

Gus. Mistaken man ! 
I come empower'd and strengthen'd in thy weakness ; 
For though the structure of a tyrant's throne 
Rise on the necks of half the suffering world, 
Fear trembles in the cement ; prayers, and tears, 
And secret curses, sap its mouldering base, 
And steal the pillars of allegiance from it ; 
Then let a single arm but dare the sway, 
Headlong it turns and drives upon destruction. 

Crist. Profane, and alien to the love of heaven ! 
Art thou still hardened to the wrath divine, 
That hangs o'er thy rebellion ? Know'st thou not 
Thou art at enmity with grace, cast out, 
Made an anathema, a curse enrolled 
Among the faithful, thou and thy adherents 
Shorn from our holy church, and offered up 
As sacred to perdition ? 

Gus. Yes, I know,. 
When such as thou, with sacrilegious hand, 
Seize on the apostolic key of heaven, 
It then becomes a tool for crafty knaves 
To shut out virtue-, and unfold those gates 
That heaven itself had barred against the lusts 
Of avarice and ambition. Soft and sweet, 
As looks of charity, or voice of lambs 
That bleat upon the mountains, are the words 
Of Christian meekness ! mission all divine ! 
The law of love sole mandate: 

Crist. No more of this, 
Gustavus, wouldst thou yet return to grace, 
And hold thy motions in the sphere of duty, 
Acceptance might be found., 

Gus. Imperial spoiler ! 
Give me my father, give me back my kindred, 
Give me the fathers of ten thousand orphans, 
Give me the sons in whom thy ruthless sword 
Has left our widows childless. Mine they were, 
Both mine, and every Swede's, whose patriot breast 
Bleeds in his country's woundings, O thou canst not, 



186 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Thou hast outsinned all reckoning ! Give me, then, 
My all that's left, my gentle mother there, 
And spare yon little trembler. 

Crist. Yes, on terms 
Of compact and submission. 

Gus. Ha ! with thee ? 
Compact with thee ? and mean'st thou for my country, 
For Sweden ? No, so hold my heart but firm, 
Although it wring for 't, though blood drop for tears, 
And at the sight my straining eyes start forth — 
They both shall perish first. Brooke. 



HAMLET AND HORATIO.— Hamlet. 

Hor. Hail to your lordship ! 

Ham. I am glad to see you well. 
Horatio ! — or I do forget myself. 

Hor. The same, my lord, and your poor servant ever. 

Ham. Sir, my good friend : I'll change that name with 
you: 
And what make you from Wittenberg, Horatio ? 

Hor. A truant disposition, good my lord. 

Ham. I would not have your enemy say so ! 
Nor shall you do mine ear that violence, 
To make it truster of your own report 
Against yourself. I know you are no truant ; 
But what is your affair in Elsinore ? 
We'll teach you to drink deep ere you depart. 

Hor. My lord, I came to see your father's funeral. 

Ham. I pray thee, do not mock me, fellow student ; 
I think it was to see my mother's wedding. 

Hor. Indeed, my lord, it followed hard upon. 

Ham. Thrift, thrift, Horatio ; the funeral baked meats 
Did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables. 
Would I had met my dearest foe in heaven, 
Ere I had ever seen that day, Horatio ! 
My father — methinks I see my father. 

Hor. O where, my lord ! 

Ham. In my mind's eye, Horatio. 

Hor. I saw him once, he was a goodly king. 



DIALOGUES. 187 

Ham. He was a man, take him for all in all, 
I shall not look upon his like again. 

Hor. My lord, I think I saw him yesternight. 

Ham. Saw ! who ? 

Hor. My lord, the king, your father. 

Ham. The king, my father ! 

Hor. Season your admiration for a while 
With an attent ear, till I may deliver, 
Upon the witness of these gentlemen, 
This marvel to you. 

Ham. For heaven's love, let me hear ! 

Hor. Two nights together had these gentlemen, 
Marcellus and Bernardo, on their watch, 
In the dead waste and middle of the night, 
Been thus encountered : A figure, like your father, 
Armed at all points exactly, cap-a-pe, 
Appears before them, and with solemn march 
Goes slow and stately by them ; thrice he walked 
By their oppressed and fear surprised eyes, 
Within his truncheon's length, whilst they (distilled 
Almost to jelly with th' effect of fear), 
Stand dumb, and speak not to him. This to me 
In dreadful secresy impart they did, 
And I with them the third night kept the watch ; 
Where, as they had delivered, both in time, 
Form of the thing, each word made true and good, 
The apparition comes. I knew your father : 
These hands are not more like. 

Ham. But where was this ? 

Hor. My lord, upon the platform where we watched. 

Ham. Did you not speak to it ? 

Hor. My lord, I did ; 
But answer made it none. Yet once methought 
It lifted up its head, and did address 
Itself to motion, like as it would speak; 
But even then the morning cock crew loud, 
And at the sound it shrunk in haste away, 
And vanished from our sight. 

Ham. 'Tis very strange. 

Hor. As I do live, my honoured lord, 'tis true : 
And we did think it writ down in our duty, 



188 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

To let you know of it. 

Ham. Indeed, indeed, sirs, but this troubles me. 
Hold you the watch to-night ? 

Hor. I do, my lord. 

Ham. Armed, say you? 

Hor. Armed, my lord. 

Ham. From top to toe ? 

Hor. My lord, from head to foot. 

Ham. Then saw you not his face ?. 

Hor. O yes, my lord : he wore his beaver up. 

Ham. What, looked he frowningly ? 

Hor. A countenance more in sorrow than in anger. 

Ham. Pale, or red ? 

Hor. Nay, very pale. 

Ham. And fixed his eyes upon you ? 

Hor. Most constantly. 

Ham. I would I had been there. 

Hor, It would have much amazed you. 

Ham. Very like, very like. Staid it long ? 

Hor. While one with mod'rate haste might tell a hun- 
dred. 

Ham. His beard was grizzly ? — no ? 

Hor. It was, as I have seen it in his life, 
A sable silvered. 

Ham. I will watch to-night ; 
Perchance 'twill walk again. 

Hor. I warrant you it will. 

Ham. If it assume my noble father's person, 
I'll speak to it, though hell itself should gape, 
And bid me hold my peace. I pray you then, 
If you have hitherto concealed this sight, 
Let it be tenable in your silence still : 
And whatsoever else shall hap to-night,, 
Give it an understanding, but no tongue: 
I will requite your love : so fare you well. 
Upon the platform, 'twixt eleven and twelve, 
I'll visit you. 

SHAKESrERE. 



DIALOGUES. 1S9 



KING JOHN AND HUBERT.— King John. 

Hub. My lord, they say, five moons were seen to-night 
Four fixed ; and the fifth did whirl about 
The other four, in wondrous motion. 

K. John. Five moons ? 

Hub. Old men, and beldams, in the streets 
Do prophesy upon it dangerously : 
Young Arthur's death is common in their mouths : 
And when they talk of him, they shake their heads, 
And whisper one another in the ear. 

K. John. Why seek'st thou to possess me with these 
fears ? 
"Why urgest thou so oft young Arthur's death ? 
Thy hand hath murther'd him. I had a mighty cause 
To wish him dead, but thou hadst none to kill him. 

Hub. None had, my lord ! Why, did you not provoke 
me ? 

K. John. It is the curse of kings, to be attended 
By slaves, that take their humours for a warrant 
To break within the bloody house of life : 
And, on the winking of authority, 
To understand a law ; to know the meaning 
Of dangerous majesty, when, perchance it frowns 
More upon humour than advised respect. 

Hub. Here is your hand and seal for what I did. 

K. John. O when the last account 'twixt heaven and 
earth 
Is to be made, then shall this hand and seal 
Witness against us to damnation ! 
How oft the sight of means to do ill deeds 
Makes ill deeds done ! Hadst not thou been by, 
A fellow by the hand of nature marked. 
Quoted, and signed, to do a deed of shame, 
This murther had not come into my mind : 
But taking note of thy abhorr'd aspect, 
Finding thee fit for bloody villa ny, 
Apt, liable, to be employed in danger, 
I faintly broke with thee of Arthur's death ; 
And thou, to be endeared to a king, 



190 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Made it no conscience to destroy a prince. 

Hub. My lord, — 

K. John. Hadst thou but shook thy head, or made a 
pause, 
When I spake darkly what I purposed, 
Or turned an eye of doubt upon my face, 
As bid me tell my tale in express words, 
Deep shame had struck me dumb, made me break off, 
And those thy fears might have wrought fears in me : 
But thou didst understand me by my signs, 
And didst in signs again parley with sin ; 
Yea, without stop, didst let thy heart consent, 
And, consequently, thy rude hand to act 
The deed, which both our tongues held vile to name. 
Out of my sight, and never see me more ! 
My nobles leave me ; and my state is braved, 
Even at my gates, with ranks of foreign powers : 
Nay, in the body of this fleshly land, 
This kingdom, this confine of blood and breath, 
Hostility and civil tumult reigns 
Between my conscience, and my cousin's death. 

Hub. Arm you against your other enemies, 
I'll make a peace between your soul and you. 
Young Arthur is alive. This hand of mine 
Is yet a maiden and an innocent hand, 
Not painted with the crimson spots of blood. 
"Within this bosom never entered yet 
The dreadful motion of a murtherous thought ; 
And you have slandered nature in my form, 
Which, howsoever rude exteriorly, 
Is yet the cover of a fairer mind 
Than to be butcher of an innocent child. 

K. John. Doth Arthur live ? O haste thee to the peers. 
Throw this report on their incensed rage, 
And make them tame to their obedience ! 
Forgive the comment that my passion made 
Upon thy feature ; for my rage was blind, 
And foul imaginary eyes of blood 
Presented thee more hideous than thou art. 
O answer not ; but to my closet bring 



DIALOGUES. 191 

The angry lords, with all expedient haste : 
I conjure thee but slowly ; run more fast. 

Shakespere. 



LIONI AND BERTRAM.— Marino Faliero. 

The Selections from Lord Byron's later works are inserted by 
the kind permission of John Murray, Esq. 

Lioni. Now, stranger, what would you at such an hour ? 

Bert, A boon, my noble patron ; you have granted 
Many to your poor client Bertram ; add 
This one. and make him happy. 

Lioni, Thou hast known me 
From boyhood, ever ready to assist thee 
In all fair objects of advancement which 
Beseem one of thy station ; I would promise 
Ere thy request was heard, but that the' hour, 
Thy bearing, and this strange and hurried mode 
Of suing, gives me to suspect this visit 
Hath some mysterious import — but say on. 

Bert My lord, I thank you : but — 

Lioni. But what ? You have not 
Raised a rash hand against one of our order ? 
If so, withdraw, and fly, and own it not ; 
I would not slay — but then, I must not save thee ! 
He who has shed patrician blood — 

Bert. I come 
To save patrician blood, and not to shed it ! 
And thereunto I must be speedy, for 
Each minute lost may lose a life ; since Time 
Has changed his slow scythe for the two-edged sword, 
And is about to take, instead of sand, 
The dust from sepulchres to fill his hour-glass ! 
Go not thou forth to-morrow I 

Lioni. Wherefore not — 
What means this menace ? 

Bert. Do not seek its meaning, 
But do as I implore thee ; — stir not forth, 
Whate'er be stirring ; though the roar of crowds — 
The cry of women, and the shrieks of babes — 



192 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

The groans of men — the clash of arras — the sound 
Of rolling drum, shrill trump, and hollow bell, 
Peal in one wide alarum ! Go not forth 
Until the tocsin's silent, nor even then 
Till I return ! 

Lioni. Again, what does this mean ? 

Bert. Again I tell thee, ask not ; but by all 
Thou holdest dear on earth or heaven — by all 
The souls of thy great fathers, and thy hope 
To emulate them, and to leave behind 
Descendants worthy both of them and thee — 
By all thou hast of blest in hope or memory — 
By all thou hast to fear here or hereafter — 
By all the good deeds thou hast done to me, 
Good I would now repay with greater good, 
Remain within — trust to thy household gods, 
And to my word, for safety, if thou dost 
As now 1 counsel— but if not, thou art lost ! 

Lioni. I am, indeed, already lost in wonder ; 
Surely thou ravest ! What have I to dread ? 
Who are my foes ? Or if there be such, why 
Art thou leagued with them I thou ! or if so leagued, 
Why comest thou to tell me at this hour, 
And not before ? 

Bert. I cannot answer this. 
Wilt thou go forth despite of this true warning ? 

Lioni. I was not born to shrink from idle threats, 
The cause of which I know not : at the hour 
Of council, be it soon or late, I shall not 
Be found among the absent. 

Bert. Say not so ; 
Once more, art thou determin'd to go forth ? 

Lioni. I am. Nor is there aught which shall impede me ! 

Bert. Then heaven have mercy on thy soul ! Farewell ! 

[Going. 

Lioni. Stay — there is more in this than my own safety, 
Which makes me call thee back ; we must not part thus: 
Bertram, I have known thee long. 

Bert. From childhood, signor, 
You have been my protector : in the days 
Of reckless infancy, when rank forgets, 



DIALOGUES. 193 

Or, rather, is not yet taught to remember 

Its cold prerogative, we played together ; 

Our sports, our smiles, our tears, were mingled oft ; 

My father was your father's client, I 

His son's scarce less than foster-brother ; years 

Saw us together — happy, heart-full hours ! 

Oh God I the difference 'twixt those hours and this ! 

Lioni. Bertram, 'tis thou who hast forgotten them. 

Bert. Nor now, nor ever ; whatsoe'er betide, 
I would have saved you : when to manhood's growth 
We sprung, and you devoted to the state, 
As suits your station, the more humble Bertram 
Was left unto the labours of the humble, 
Still you forsook me not ; and if my fortunes 
Have not been towering, 'twas no fault of him 
Who oft-times rescued and supported me, 
When struggling with the tides of circumstance, 
Which bear away the weaker : noble blood 
Ne'er mantled in a nobler heart than thine 
Has proved to me, the poor plebeian Bertram. 
Would that thy fellow -senators were like thee ? 

Lioni. Why, what hast thou to say against the senate ? 

Bert. Nothing. 

Lioni, I know that there are angry spirits 
And turbulent mutterers of stifled treason, 
Who lurk in narrow places, and walk out 
Muffled to whisper curses to the night ; 
Disbanded soldiers, discontented ruffians, 
And desperate libertines, who brawl in taverns ; 
Thou herdest not with such : 'tis true, of late 
I have lost sight of thee, but thou wert wont 
To lead a temperate life, and break thy bread 
With honest mates, and bear a cheerful aspect. 
What hath come to thee ? In thy hollow eye 
And hueless cheek, and thine unquiet motions, 
Sorrow and shame and conscience seem at war 
To waste thee. 

Bert. Rather shame and sorrow light 
On the accursed tyranny which rides 
The very air in Venice, and makes men 
Madden as in the last hours of the plague, 

K 



194 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Which sweeps the soul deliriously from life ! 

Lioni. Some villains have been tampering with thee, 
Bertram ; 
This is not thy old language, nor own thoughts ; 
Some wretch has made thee drunk with disaffection : 
But thou must not be lost so ; thou wert good 
And kind, and art not fit for such base acts 
As vice and villany would put thee to : 
Confess — confide in me — thou know'st my nature — 
What is it thou and thine are bound to do, 
That I should deem thee dangerous, 
And keep the house like a sick girl ? 

Bert. Nay, question me no further ; — minutes fly, 
And thou art lost ? — Thou ! my sole benefactor, 
The only being who was constant to me 
Through every change. Yet, make me not a traitor ! 
Let me save thee — but spare my honour ! 

Lioni. Where 
Can lie the honour in a league of murder ? 
And who are traitors save unto the state ? 

Bert. A league is still a compact, and more binding 
In honest hearts when words must stand for law ; 
And in my mind, there is no traitor like 
He whose domestic treason plants the poniard 
Within the breast which trusted to his truth. 

Lioni. And who will strike the steel to mine ? 

Bert. Not I ; 
I could have wound my soul up to all things 
Save this. Thou must not die ! and think how dear 
Thy life is, when I risk so many lives ! 
Nay, more, the life of lives, the liberty 
Of future generations, not to be 
The assassin thou miscall'st me ; — once, once more, 
I do adjure thee, pass not o'er thy threshold ! 

Lioni. It is in vain — this moment I go forth. 

Bert. Then perish Venice rather than my friend ! 
I will disclose — ensnare — betray — destroy — 
O what a villain I become for thee ! 

Lioni. Say, rather thy friend's saviour and the state's ! 
Speak — pause not — all rewards, all pledges for 
Thy safety and thy welfare ; wealth such as 



DIALOGUES. 195 

The state accords her worthiest servants ; nay- 
Nobility itself I guarantee thee, 
So that thou art sincere and penitent. 

Bert. I have thought again : it must not be — I love thee — 
Thou knowest it— that I stand here is the proof, 
Not least, though last ; but having done my duty 
By thee, I now must do it by my country ! 
Farewell — we meet no more in life ! — farewell. 

Byron. 



LOCHIEL AND WIZARD.— Lochiel's Warning. 

Wiz. Lochiel, Lochiel ! beware of the day 
When the Lowlands shall meet thee in battle array ! 
For a field of the dead rushes red on my sight, 
And the clans of Culloden are scatter'd in flight. 
They rally, they bleed, for their kingdom and crown ; 
Woe, woe to the riders that trample them down ! 
Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the slain, 
And their hoof-beaten bosoms are trod to the plain. 
But hark ! through the fast-flashing lightning of war, 
What steed to the desert flies frantic and far ? 
'Tis thine ; , O Glenullin ! whose bride shall await, 
Like a love-lighted watch-fire, all night at the gate. 
A steed comes at morning : no rider is there ; 
But its bridle is red with the sign of despair. 
Weep, Albin ! to death and captivity led ! 
O weep ! but thy tears cannot number the dead : 
For a merciless sword o'er Culloden shall wave, 
Culloden ! that reeks with the blood of the brave. 

Loch. Go, preach to the coward, thou death-telling seer ! 
Or, if gory Culloden so dreadful appear, 
Draw, dotard, around thy old wavering sight, 
This mantle, to cover the phantoms of fright. 

Wiz. Ha ! laugh' st thou, Lochiel, my vision to scorn? 
Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall be torn ! 
Say, rush'd the bold eagle exultingly forth, 
From his home, in the dark rolling clouds of the north ? 
Lo ! the death- shot of foeman outspeeding, he rode 
Companionless, bearing destruction abroad ; 



196 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

But down let him stoop from his havoc on high ! 
Ah ! home let him speed, — for the spoiler is nigh ! 
Why flames the far summit ? Why shoot to the blast 
Those embers, like stars from the firmament cast? 
"lis the fire-shower of ruin, all dreadfully driven 
From his eyry, that beacons the darkness of heaven. 

crested Lochiel, the peerless in might, 
Whose banners arise on the battlements' height, 
Heaven's fire is around thee, to blast and to burn ; 
Return to thy dwelling ! all lonely return ! 

For the blackness of ashes shall mark where it stood, 
And a wild mother scream o'er her famishing brood. 

Loch. False Wizard, avaunt ! I have marshall'd my 
clan, 
Their swords are a thousand, their bosoms are one ! 
They are true to the last of their blood and their breath, 
And like reapers descend to the harvest of death. 
Then welcome be Cumberland's steed to the shock ! 
Let him dash his proud foam like a wave on the rock ! 
But woe to his kindred, and woe to his cause, 
When Albin her claymore indignantly draws ; 
When her bonneted chieftains to victory crowd, 
Clanranald the dauntless, and Moray the proud, 
All plaided and plumed in their tartan array — 

Wiz. Lochiel, Lochiel ! beware of the day : 
For, dark and despairing, my sight I may seal, 
But man cannot cover what God would reveal ; 
'Tis the sunset of life gives me mystical lore, 
And coming events cast their shadows before. 

1 tell thee, Culloden's dread echoes shall ring 

With the bloodhounds that bark for thy fugitive king. 

Lo ! anointed by Heaven with vials of wrath, 

Behold, where he flies on his desolate path ! 

Now in darkness and billows, he sweeps from my sight; 

Rise, rise, ye wild tempests, and cover his flight ! 

'Tis finish'd. Their thunders are hush'd on the moors : 

Culloden is lost, and my country deplores. 

But where is the iron-bound prisoner? Where ? 

For the red eye of battle is shut in despair. 

Say, mounts he the ocean- wave, banish'd, forlorn, 

Like a limb from his country cast bleeding and torn ? 



DIALOGUES 197 

Ah, no ! for a darker departure is near ; 

The war-drum is muffled, and black is the bier ; 

His death-bell is tolling : oh ! mercy, dispel 

Yon sight, that it freezes my spirit to tell ! 

Life flutters convulsed in his quivering limbs, 

And his blood-streaming nostril in agony swims. 

Accursed be the faggots, that blaze at his feet, 

Where his heart shall be thrown, ere it ceases to beat, 

With the smoke of its ashes to poison the gale — 

Loch. Down, soothless insulter \ I trust not the tale: 
For never shall Albin a destiny meet, 
So black with dishonour, so foul with retreat. 
Tho' my perishing ranks should be strew'd in their gore, 
Like ocean-weeds heap'd on the surf-beaten shore, 
Lochiel, untainted by flight or by chains, 
While the kindling of life in his bosom remains, 
Shall victor exult, or in death be laid low, 
With his back to the field, and his face to the foe ! 
And leaving in battle no blot on his name, 
Look proudly to Heaven from the death-bed of fame. 

Campbell. 



MANFRED. 
Enter Chamois Hunter and Manfred. 

C. Hunter. No, no — yet pause — thou must not yet go 
forth : 
Thy mind and body are alike unfit 
To trust each other, for some hours, at least ; 
When thou art better, I will be thy guide — 
But whither ? 

Man. It imports not : I do know 
My route full well, and need no further guidance. 

C. Hunter, Thy garb and gait bespeak thee of high 
lineage — 
One of the many chiefs, whose castled crags 
Look o'er the lower valleys — which of these 
May call thee lord ? I only know their portals ; 
My way of life leads me but rarely down 
To bask by the huge hearths of those old halls, 



198 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Carousing with the vassals ; but the paths, 
"Which step from out our mountains to their doors, 
I know from childhood — which of these is thine ? 

Man. No matter. 

C. Hunter. Well, sir, pardon me the question, 
And be of better cheer. Come, taste my wine ; 
'Tis of an ancient vintage : many a day 
'T has thaw'd my veins among our glaciers, now 
Let it do thus for thine. — Come pledge me fairly. 

Man. Away, away ! there's blood upon the brim ! 
Will it, then, never — never sink in the earth ? 

(7. Hunter. What dost thou mean ? thy senses wander 
from thee. 

Man. I say, 'tis blood — my blood ! the pure warm stream 
Which ran in the veins of my fathers, and in ours 
When we were in our youth, and had one heart, 
And loved each other as we should not love, 
And this was shed ; but still it rises up 
Colouring the clouds, that shut me out from heaven, 
Where thou art not — and I shall never be. 

C. Hunter. Man of strange words, and some half mad- 
dening sin, 
Which makes thee people vacancy, whate'er 
Thy dread and sufferance be, there's comfort yet — 
The aid of holy men, and heavenly patience — 

Man. Patience and patience ! Hence — that word was 
made 
For brutes of burthen, not for birds of prey ; 
Preach it to mortals of a dust like thine, — 
I am not of thy order. 

C. Hunter. Thanks to heaven ! 
I would not be of thine for the free fame 
Of William Tell ; but whatsoe'er thine ill, 
It must be borne, and these wild starts are useless. 

Man. Do I not bear it ? Look on me — I live. 

C. Hunter. This is convulsion, and no healthful life. 

Man. I tell thee, man ! I have lived many years, 
Many long years, but they are nothing now 
To those which I must number : ages — ages — 
Space and eternity — and consciousness, 
With the fierce thirst of death — and still unslaked ! 



DIALOGUES. 199 

C. Hunter. Why, on thy brow the seal of middle age 
Hath scarce been set ; I am thine elder far. 

Man. Think'st thou existence doth depend on time ? 
It doth ; but actions are our epochs: mine 
Have made my days and nights imperishable, 
Endless, and all alike, as sands on the shore 
Innumerable atoms ; and one desert, 
Barren and cold, on which the wild waves break, 
But nothing rests, save carcasses and wrecks, 
Rocks, and the salt surf weeds of bitterness. 

C. Hunter. Alas ! he's mad — but yet I must not leave 
him. 

Man. I would I were — for then the things I see 
Would be but a distempered dream. 

C. Hunter. What is it 
That thou dost see, or think thou look'st upon ? 

Man. Myself, and thee — a peasant of the Alps — 
Thy humble virtues, hospitable home, 
And spirit-patient, pious, proud, and free ; 
Thy self-respect, grafted on innocent thoughts ; 
Thy days of health, and nights of sleep ; thy toils, 
By danger dignified, yet guiltless ; hopes 
Of cheerful old age and a quiet grave, 
With cross and garland over its green turf, 
And thy grandchildren's love for epitaphs ; 
This do I see — and then I look within 
It matters not — my soul was scorched already ! 

C. Hunter. And would'st thou then exchange thy lot for 



mine 



Man. No, friend ! I would not wrong thee, nor exchange 
My lot with living being : I can bear 
However wretchedly, 'tis still to bear 
In life what others could not brook to dream, 
But perish in their slumber. 

C. Hunter. And with this — 
This cautious feeling for another's pain, 
Canst thou be black with evil ? Say not so. 
Can one of gentle thoughts have wreaked revenge 
Upon his enemies ? 

Man. Oh ! no, no, no ! 
My injuries came down on those who loved me — 



200 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

On those whom I best loved : I never quelled 
An enemy, save in my just defence — 
But my embrace was fatal. 

C* Hunter. Heaven give thee rest ! 
And penitence restore thee to thyself; 
My prayers shall be for thee. 

Man. I need them not, 
But can endure thy pity. I depart — 
Tis time — farewell ! — Here's gold, and thanks for thee- 
No words — it is thy due. Follow me not — 
I know my path — the mountain peril's past: 
And once again, I charge thee, follow not ! 

Byron. 



LORD AVONDALE AND TYKE. 
The School op Reform. 

Lord A. Come hither. How is this, Robert ? When I 
left England you were a youth, whose example was pointed 
out as an object of imitation — your morals were pure, 
your industry exemplary — how is it, then, that I now see 
you an abandoned outcast ? 

Tyke. Ah, sur, it was all along wi' you. 

Lord A. Me ! Was not my bounty ample ? Did not I 
give you independence ? 

Tyke. Ah ! that was it — when you sent me that little 
child to take care on — 

Lord A. — Hush ! 

Tyke. Well, well ; — and that big lump of money ! you 
see, as I had not worked for it, it made me quite fidgetty ; 
I always had my hand in my pocket, scrummelling it about 
like — so, as all Yorkshire lads like galloping horses, I 
bought one, and took 't to races, up at our country side — 
and ecod ! I pulled stuff into my hat as clean as nine- 
pence. Oh, oh ! says I, I'll make short work of this; I'll 
go to Newmarket, where the lords do bring their cattle, 
and settle matters in a hurry. So I went, and mighty 
pleased I was ; for the jockey lords called me 'squire, you 
see, —and clapping me on the back in this manner, says, 
'Squire, your horse will beat everything ! 



DIALOGUES. 201 

Lord A. Indeed ! 

Tyke. Yes, yes — that was pleasant enough ; but, un- 
luckily, the jockey lads told me a heap o' lies ; for rna 
horse always came in lag last. Then they told ma to 
hedge ; but it was not the hedging I had been used to, 
and somehow — I got intid ditch like. So what with that, 
and playing cards at Lamb-skinnings (for, bless you, I 
could not catch them at Snitchums), I was — 

Lord A. Ruined. 

Tyke. Yes; as jockey lords said — completely cleaned 
out. 

Lord A. Did you not return to honest labour ? 

Tyke. Oh no, I could not ! — my hands had got soft and 
smooth, and I had a ring girt about my finger : — no, I could 
not tak to work. 

Lord A. Go on. 

Tyke. Why, as I could stay there no longer, I thought 
it would not be a bad plan to go away — so I went intid 
stable, and, would you believe it ? the horse that beat mine 
somehow coaxed and contrived to get me on his back like 
— and, ecod, galloped off wi' me a matter of an hundred 
miles. I thought no more about it myself — 

Lord A. But they did ? 

Tyke. Yes, hang them, and were very cross indeed ; for 
they put me intid castle, and tried me at 'sizes. 

Lord A. What could you say to avert your fate ? 

Tyke. Why, I told the judge — says I, my lord, I hope 
you'll excuse my not being used to this kind of tackle — 
exchange is no robbery, mistakes of this kind will happen ; 
but, I assure you, I've kept the best of company with the 
jockey lords, and such like as yourself. So they all smiled, 
as much as to say, he's one of us like — and I thought all 
was right enough ; but the judge puts him on a black cap, 
and, without saying with your leave, or anything, orders 
me to be hanged ! 

Lord A . Poor wretch ! 

Tyke. Don't you be frightened ! they did not hang me, 
mun — don't believe that: no, bless you, they sent ma to 
Botany Bay, for fourteen years. 

Lord A. Where, I hope, you remained resigned to your 
fate. 

k 5 



202 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Tyke Oh ! quite resigned, for I could not get away — I 
dare say I tried a hundred times. 

Lord A. Why did not I know it ? Had you sent to my 
house — 

Tyke. I did send to your house. 

Lord A. Well! 

Tyke. Why, they wrote word, I think, that you had 
been called up to t'other house — but then I did not know 
where that was — and that you was sent abroad by govern- 
ment. I was sorry to hear that, because I knew what that 
was by myself like ; not that it surprised me, because 
I heard of your always being at cock-pit, and I guessed 
what that would end in. 

Lord A. Pshaw! Come hither; tell me — I dread to 
ask it — that boy (what a question for a parent !), does he 
survive ? 

Tyke. I don't know. 

Lord A. Not know ? 

Tyke. No. 

Lord A . Where did you leave him ? 

Tyke. Where did I leave him ? Why — come, come, 
talk of something else. [Seems disturbed. 

Lord A. Impossible ! Have you to human being ever 
told from whom you received that child ? 

Tyke. No. 

Lord A. Then my secret's safe. 

Tyke. I've said so. 

Lord A. Why that frown ? What ! not even to your father ? 

Tyke. Who! [Starts. 

Lord A . What agitates you ? You had a father. 

Tyke. Had a father ! Be quiet, be quiet. 

[ Walks about, greatly agitated. 

Lord A. By the name of Him, who indignantly looks 
down upon us, tell me — 

Tyke. [Striking his forehead.] Say no more about that, 
and you shall hear all. Yes, I had a father ; and when he 
heard of my disgrace, the old man walked — wi' heavy 
heart, I warrant — all the way tid gaol to see me ; and he 
prayed up to heaven for me [pointing, but not daring to look 
up], just the same as if I had still been the pride of his 
heart. [Speaks with difficulty, and sighs heavily. 



DIALOGUES. 203 

Lord A . Proceed. 

Tyke. Presently. 

Lord A. Did you entrust the child to his care ? 

Tyke, I did. 

Lord A. — Do not pause — you rack me. 

Tyke. Rack you ! — well, you shall hear the end on 't. I 
meant to tell father all about the child ; but, when parting 
came, old man could not speak, and I could not speak — 
well, they put me on board a ship, and I saw father kneel- 
ing on the shore, with the child in his arms — 

Lord A. Go on. 

Tyke. 'Tis soon said. [Collecting his fortitude.'] When 
the signal-gun for sailing was fired, I saw my old father 
drop down dead — and somebody took up child and carried 
it away. I felt a kind of dizziness ; my eyes flashed fire, 
the blood gushed out of my mouth — I saw no more — 

[Sinks exhausted into a chair. 

Lord A. Horrible ! What record a father's death with- 
out a tear ? 

Tyke. Tear ! Do you think a villain, who has a father's 
death to answer for, can cry ? No, no ; I feel a pack of 
dogs worrying my heart, and my eyes on fire — but I can 't 
cry. [A vacant stare of horror. 

Lord A. And is this desolation my work ? O repent ! 
repent ! 

Tyke. [Starting up.~\ For what ? Is not father dead ? — 
an't I a thief — cursed — hated — hunted? My mouth's 
parched — 

Lord A. Within is wine. 

Tyke. Brandy ! brandy ! 

Lord A. Compose yourself — follow me — you want sleep. 

Tyke. Sleep ! Ha ! ha ! Under the sod I may. 

[Points down, and groans heavily. 
Morton. 



ORESTES DELIVERING HIS EMBASSY 
TO PYRRHUS. 

Orest. Before I speak the message of the Greeks, 
Permit me, sir, to glory in the title 



204 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Of their ambassador, since I behold 

Troy's vanquisher, and great Achilles' son, 

Nor does the son rise short of such a father : 

If Hector fell by him, Troy fell by you. 

But what your father never would have done, 

You do. You cherish the remains of Troy ; 

And, by an ill-timed pity, keep alive 

The dying embers of a ten years' war. 

Have you so soon forgot the mighty Hector ? 

The Greeks remember his high-brandished sword, 

That filled their states with widows and with orphans ; 

For which they call for vengeance on his son. 

Who knows what he may one day prove ? Who knows 

But he may brave us in our ports ; and, filled 

With Hector's fury, set our fleets on blaze ? 

You may yourself live to repent your mercy. 

Comply, then, with the Grecians' just demands : 

Satiate their vengeance, and preserve yourself. 

Pyr. The Greeks are for my safety more concerned 
Than I desire. I thought your kings were met 
On more important counsel. W 7 hen I heard 
The name of their ambassador, I hoped 
Some glorious enterprise was taking birth. 
Is Agamemnon's son despatched for this ? 
And do the Grecian chiefs, renowned in war, 
A race of heroes, join in close debate 
To plot an infant's death ? What right has Greece 
To ask his life ? Must I, must I alone 
Of all her sceptred warriors, be denied 
To treat my captive as I please ? Know, Prince, 
When Troy lay smoking on the ground, and each 
Proud victor shared the harvest of the war, 
Andromache, and this her son, were mine ; 
Were mine by lot ; and who shall wrest them from me ? 
Ulysses bore away old Priam's queen ; 
Cassandra was your own great father's prize ; 
Did I concern myself in what they won ? 
Did I send embassies to claim their captives ? 

Orest. But, sir, we fear for you and for ourselves. 
Troy may again revive, and a new Hector 
Rise in Astyanax. Then think betimes — 



DIALOGUES. 205 

Pyr. Let dastard souls be timorously wise ; 
But tell them Pyrrhus knows not how to form 
Far fancied ills and dangers out of sight. 

Or est. Sir, call to mind the unrivall'd strength of Troy ; 
Her walls, her bulwarks, and her gates of brass, 
Her kings, her heroes, and embattled armies ! 

Pyr. I call them all to mind ; and see them all ; 
Confused in dust ; all mixed in one wide ruin ; 
All but a child, and he in bondage held. 
What vengeance can we fear from such a Troy ? 
If they have sworn to extinguish Hector's race, 
Why was their vow for twelve long months deferred ? 
Why was he not in Priam's bosom slain ? 
He should have fallen among the slaughter'd heaps 
Whelmed under Troy. His death had then been just, 
When age and infancy alike in vain 
Pleaded their weakness ; when the heat of conquest, 
And horrors of the fight, roused all our rage, 
And blindly hurried us through scenes of death, 
My fury then was without bounds ; but now, 
My wrath appeased, must I be cruel still, 
And, deaf to all the tender calls of pity, 
Like a cool murderer, bathe my hands in blood — 
An infant's blood ? No, Prince. Go, bid the Greeks 
Mark out some other victim, my revenge 
Has had its fill. What has escaped from Troy 
Shall not be saved to perish in Epirus. 

Orest. I need not tell you, sir, Astyanax 
Was doomed to death in Troy ; nor mention how 
The crafty mother saved her darling son ; 
The Greeks do now but urge their former sentence : 
Nor is 't the boy, but Hector, they pursue ; 
The father draws their vengeance on the son ; 
The father, who so oft in Grecian blood 
Has drenched his sword ; the father, whom the Greeks 
May seek even here. Prevent them, sir, in time. 

Pyr. No ! let them come ; since I. was born to wage 
Eternal wars. Let them now turn their arms 
On him who conquered for them : let them come, 
And in Epirus seek another Troy. 
'Twas thus they recompensed my godlike sire ; 



206 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Thus was Achilles thanked. But, Prince, remember 
Their black ingratitude then cost them dear. 

Orest. Shall Greece then find a rebel son in Pyrrhus ? 

Pyr. Have I then conquered to depend on Greece ? 

Orest. Hermione will sway your soul to peace 
And mediate 'twixt her father and yourself. 
Her beauty will enforce my embassy. 

Pyr. Hermione may have her charms, and I 
May love her still, though not her father's slave. 
I may in time give proofs I am a lover ; 
But never must forget I am a king. 
Meanwhile, sir, you may see fair Helen's daughter ; 
I know how near in blood you stand allied. 
That done, you have my answer, Prince. The Greeks, 
No doubt, expect your quick return. 

Rowe. 



SEBASTIAN AND DORAX. 
Sebastian, King of Portugal. 

Dor. Now do you know me ? 

Seb. Thou should'st be Alonzo. 

Dor. So you should be Sebastian ; 
But when Sebastian ceased to be himself, 
I ceased to be Alonzo. 

Seb. As in a dream 
I see thee here, and scarce believe mine eyes. 

Dor. Is it so strange to find me where my wrongs, 
And your inhuman tyranny, have sent me ? 
Think not you dream ; or, if you did, my injuries 
Shall call so loud, that lethargy should wake ; 
And death should give you back to answer me. 
A thousand nights have brushed their balmy wings 
Over these eyes ; but ever, when they closed, 
Your tyrant image forced them ope again, 
And dried the dews thsy brought. 
The long-expected hour is come at length, 
By manly vengeance to redeem my fame ; 
And, that once cleared, eternal sleep is welcome. 

Seb. I have not yet forgot I am a king, 



DIALOGUES. 207 

Whose royal office is redress of wrongs : 

If I have wronged thee, charge me face to face ; 

I have not yet forgot I am a soldier. 

Dor. Tis the first justice thou hast ever done me ; 
Then, though I loathe this woman's war of tongue, 
Yet shall my cause of vengeance first be clear : 
And honour, be thou judge. 

Seb. Honour befriend us both. 
Beware ! I warn thee yet to tell thy griefs 
In terms becoming majesty to hear : 
I warn thee thus, because 1 know thy temper 
Is insolent and haughty to superiors : 
How often hast thou braved my peaceful court, 
Filled it with noisy brawls, and windy boasts ; 
And with past service, nauseously repeated, 
Reproached even me, thy prince ! 

Dor. And well I might, when you forgot reward 
The part of Heaven in kings : for punishment 
Is hangman's work, and drudgery for devils. 
I must and will reproach thee with my service, 
Tyrant (it irks me so -to call my prince) ! 
But just resentment and hard usage coined 
The unwilling word ; and grating as it is, 
Take it, for 'tis thy due. 

Seb. How, tyrant ! 

Dor. Tyrant ! 

Seb. Traitor ! that name thou canst not echo back ; 

Dor. If I'm a traitor, think and blush, thou tyrant, 
Whose injuries betrayed me into treason, 
Effaced my loyalty, unhinged my faith. 

Seb. Thy old presumptuous arrogance again, 
That bred my first dislike, and then my loathing. 
Once more be warned, and know me for thy king. 

Dor. Too well I know thee ; but for king no more. 
This is not Lisbon, nor the circle this, 
Where, like a statue, thou hast stood besieged, 
By sycophants and fools, the growth of courts ; 
Where thy gulled eyes, in all the gaudy round, 
Met nothing but a lie in every face ; 
And the gross flattery of a gaping crowd, 
Envious who first should catch and first applaud 



208 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

The stuff of royal nonsense. When I spoke, 

My honest homely words were carped and censured, 

For want of courtly style : related actions, 

Though modestly reported, passed for boasts. 

Secure of merit, if I asked reward, 

Thy hungry minions thought their rights invaded, 

And the bread snatched from pimps and parasites. 

Henriquez answered, with a ready lie, 

To save his king's, the boon was begged before. 

Seb. I meant thee a reward of greater worth. 

Dor. Where justice wanted, could reward be hoped — 
Could the robbed passenger expect a bounty 
From those rapacious hands who stripped him first ? 

Seb. He had my promise ere I knew thy love. 

Dor. My services deserved thou should'st revoke it. 

Seb. Thy insolence hath cancelled all thy service; 
To violate my laws, even in my court, 
Sacred to peace, and safe from all affronts ; 
Even to my face, and done in my despite, 
Under the wing of awful majesty, 
To strike the man I loved. 

Dor. Even in the face of Heaven, a place more sacred, 
Would I have struck the man who, prompt by power, 
Would seize my right, and rob me of my love. 
But, for a blow provoked by thy injustice, 
The hasty product of a just despair, 
When he refused to meet me in the field, 
That thou shouldst make a coward's cause thy own ! 

Seb. He durst: nay, more, desired and begged with 
tears, 
To meet thy challenge fairly ; 'twas thy fault 
To make it public : but my duty then 
To interpose, on pain of my displeasure, 
Betwixt your swords. 

Dor. On pain of infamy 
He should have disobeyed. 

Seb. The indignity thou didst was meant to me : 
Thy gloomy eyes were cast on me with scorn, 
As who should say, the blow was there intended ; 
But that thou didst not dare to lift thy hands 
Against anointed power : so was I forced 



DIALOGUES. 209 

To do a sovereign justice to myself, 
And spurn thee from my presence. 

Dor. Thou hast dared 
To tell me what I durst not tell myself : 
I durst not think that I was spurned, and live ; 
Give me revenge, while I have breath to ask it. 

Seb. Now by this honoured order which I wear, 
More gladly would I give than thou dar'st ask it, 
Nor shall the sacred character of king 
Be urged to shield rne from thy bold appeal. 
If I have injured thee, that makes us equal : 
The wrong, if done, debased me down to thee. 
But thou hast charged me with ingratitude ; 
Hast thou not charged me ? Speak. 

Dor. Thou know'st I have : 
If thou disown' st that imputation, draw, 
And prove my charge a "lie. 

Seb. No ; to disprove that lie I must not draw : 
Be conscious to thy worth, and tell thy soul 
What thou hast done this day in my defence: 
To fight thee after this, what were it else 
Than owning that ingratitude thou urgest ? 
That isthmus stands between two rushing seas ; 
Which, mounting, view each other from afar, 
And strive in vain to meet. 

Dor. I '11 cut that isthmus : 
Thou know'st I meant not to preserve thy life, 
But to retrieve it, for my own revenge ; 
I saved thee out of honourable malice. 
Now draw ; I should be loth to think thou darest not : 
Beware of such another vile excuse* 

Seb. O patience, Heaven \ 

Dor. Beware of patience, too ; 
That's a suspicious word : it had been proper, 
Before thy foot had spurned me ; now 'tis base : 
Yet, to disarm thee of thy last defence, 
I have thy oath for my security t 
The only boon I begged was this fair combat : 
Fight, or be perjured now ; that's all thy choice, 

Seb. Now can I thank thee as thou would' st be thanked; 
Never was vow of honour better paid, [Draiving. 



210 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Go ; bear my message to Henriquez* ghost, 
And say his master and his friend revenged him. 

Dor. His ghost I then is my hated rival dead ? 

Seb. If it would please thee, thou shouldst never know; 
But thou, like jealousy, inquir'st a truth, 
"Which found, will torture thee. He died in fight: 
Fought next my person, as in concert fought ; 
Kept pace for pace, and blow for eveiy blow ; 
Save when he heaved his shield in my defence, 
And on his naked side received my wound : 
Then, when he could no more, he fell at once, 
But rolled his falling body cross their way, 
And made a bulwark of it for his prince. 

Dor. I never can forgive him such a death ! 

Seb. I prophesied thy proud soul could not bear it. 
Now judge thyself, who best deserved my love ? 
I knew you both ; and (durst I say) as Heaven 
Foreknew, among the shining angel host, 
Who should stand firm, who fall — 

Dor. Had he been tempted so, so had he fallen ; 
And so, had I been favoured, had I stood. 

Seb. What had been, is unknown ; what is, appears : 
Confess he justly was preferred to thee. 

Dor. O whither wouldst thou drive me ? I must grant, 
Yes, I must grant, but with a swelling soul, 
Henriquez had your love with more desert: 
For you he fought and died : I fought against you : 
Through all the mazes of the bloody field 
Hunted your sacred life ; which that I missed 
Was the propitious error of my fate, 
Not of my soul ; my soul's a regicide. 

Seb. Thou might'st have given it a more gentle name : 
Thou meant 'st to kill a tyrant, not a king. 
Speak, didst thou not, Alonzo ? 

Dor. Can I speak ? 
Alas ! I cannot answer to Alonzo : 
No : Dorax cannot answer to Alonzo. 
Alonzo was too kind a name for me. 
Then, when I fought, and conquered with your arms, 
In that blest age I was the man you named : 
Till rage and pride debased me into Dorax ; 



DIALOGUES. 211 

And lost like Lucifer, my name above. 

Seb. Yet twice this day I ow'd my life to Dorax. 

Dor. I saved you but to kill you : there's my grief. 

Seb. Nay, if thou canst be grieved, thou canst repent : 
Thou couldst not be a villain, though thou wouldst: 
Thou ownst too much in owning thou hast erred: 
And I too little, who provoked thy crime. 

Dor. O stop this headlong torrent of your goodness ; 
It comes too fast upon a feeble soul, 
Half drowned in tears before ; spare my confusion, 
For pity spare, and say not, first you erred. 
For yet I have not dared, through guilt and shame, 
To throw myself beneath your royal feet. [Kneels. 

Now spurn this rebel, this proud renegade ; 
'Tis just you should, nor will I more complain. 

Seb. Indeed thou should'st not ask forgiveness first, 

[Raises him up. 
But thou prevent'st me still in all that's noble. 
Thou canst not speak, and I can ne'er be silent. 
Some strange reverse of fate must sure attend 
This vast profusion, this extravagance 
Of heaven to bless me thus. 'Tis gold so pure, 
It cannot bear the stamp without allay. 
Be kind, ye powers, and take but half away : 
With ease the gifts of fortune I resign : 
But let my love and friend be ever mine, Drydest. 



SIR EDWARD MORTIMER AND WILFORD. 
The Iron Chest. 

Sir E. Wilford, is no one in the picture-gallery? 

Wil. No — not a soul, sir — not a human soul ; 
None within hearing if I were to bawl 
Ever so loud. 

Sir E. Wilford, approach me. — What am I to say 
For aiming at your life ? Do you not scorn me, 
Despise me for it ? 

Wil. I !— Oh, sir. 

Sir E. You must ; 
For I am singled from the herd of men, 
A vile heart-broken wretch ! 



212 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Wil. Indeed, indeed, sir, 
You deeply wrong yourself. — Your equal's love, 
The poor man's prayer, the orphan's tear of gratitude, 
All follow you ; and I — I owe you all, — 
I am most bound to bless you ! 

Sir E. Mark me, Wilford. — 
I know the value of the orphan's tear, 
The poor man's prayer, respect from the respected : 
I feel to merit these, and to obtain them, 
Is to taste here below that thrilling cordial, 
Which the remunerating angel draws 
From the eternal fountain of delight, 
To pour on blessed souls that enter heaven. 
I feel this — 1 1 How must my nature, then, 
Revolt at him who seeks to stain his hand 
In human blood ? And yet, it seems, this day 
I sought your life. Oh, I have suffered madness ! 
None know my tortures — pangs ; but I can end them, — 
End them as far as appertains to thee. 
I have resolved it: fearful struggles tear me : 
But I have pondered on't, and I must trust thee. 
Wil. Your confidence shall not be — 

Sir E. You must swear. 

Wil. Swear, sir ! Will nothing but an oath, then — 

Sir E. No retreating. 

Wil. [After a pause.~] I swear, by all the ties that bind 
a man, 
Divine or human, never to divulge 1 

Sir E. Remember, you have sought this secret, — yes, 
Extorted it. — I have not thrust it on you. 
Tis big with danger to you ; and to me, 
While I prepare to speak, torment unutterable. 
Know, Wilford, that — 

Wil. Dearest sir, 
Collect yourself ; this shakes you horribly. — 
You had this trembling, it is scarce a- week, 
At Madam Helen's. 

Sir E. There it is. Her uncle — 
Wil. Her uncle ! 

Sir E. Him — She knows it not, — none know it : 
You are the first ordained to hear me say, 



DIALOGUES. 213 

■ 

I am — his murderer ! 

Wil. Oh, heaven ! 

Sir E. His assassin ! 

Wil. What ! You that — mur — the murder — I am choked ! 

Sir E. Honour — thou blood-stained god ! at whose red 
altar 
Sit war and homicide, oh ! to what madness 
Will insult drive thy votaries ! By heaven ! 
In the world's range there does not breathe a man, 
"Whose brutal nature I more strove to soothe, 
With long forbearance, kindness, courtesy, 
Than his who fell by me. — But he disgraced me, 
Stained me ! — Oh, death and shame ! the world looked on 
And saw this sinewy savage strike me down ; 
Rain blows upon me, drag me to and fro 
On the base earth, like carrion. — Desperation, 
In every fibre of my frame, cried Vengeance ! 
I left the room which he had quitted. Chance 
(Curse on the chance!) while boiling with my wrongs, 
Thrust me against him, darkling, in the street. — 
I stabbed him to the heart; and my oppressor 
Rolled lifeless at my foot ! 

Wil. Oh, mercy on me ! 
How could this deed be covered ? 

Sir E. Would you think it ? 
E'en at the moment w T hen I gave the blow, 
Butchered a fellow-creature in the dark, 
I had all good men's love.— But my disgrace, 
And my opponent's death thus linked with it, 
Demanded notice of the magistracy. 
They summoned me, as friend would summon friend, 
To acts of import and communication. — 
We met ; and ' twas resolved, to stifle rumour, 
To put me on my trial. No accuser, 
No evidence appeared, to urge it on ; 
Twas meant to clear my fame. How clear it, then ? 
How cover it ? you say. — Why, by a lie, — 
Guilt's offspring and its guard ! I taught this breast, 
Which truth once made her throne, to forge a he, — 
This tongue to utter it ; rounded a tale, 
Smooth as a Seraph's song from Satan's mouth ; 



214 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

So well compacted, that the o'er -thronged court 
Disturbed cool justice in her judgment-seat, 
By shouting " Innocence ! " ere I had finished. — 
The court enlarged me ; and the giddy rabble 
Bore me in triumph home. — Ay, look upon me ! 
I know thy sight aches at me. 

Wil. Heaven forgive you ! 
It may be wrong: indeed, I pity you. 

Sir E. I disdain all pity, 
I ask no consolation ! Idle boy ! 
Thinkst thou that this compulsive confidence 
Was given to move thy pity ? Love of fame 
(For still I cling to it) has urged me thus 
To quash the curious mischief in its birth : 
Hurt honour, in an evil, cursed hour, 
Drove me to murder, — lying ; — 'twould again! 
My honesty— sweet peace of mind — all, all 
Are bartered for a name. — I will maintain it ! 
Should slander whisper o'er my sepulchre, 
And my soul's agency survive in death, 
I could embody it with heaven's lightning, 
And the hot shaft of my insulted spirit 
Should strike the blaster of my memory 
Dead in the churchyard ! Boy, I would not 1? ill thee : 
Thy rashness and discernment threatened danger ; 
To check them, there was no way left but this, 
Save one — your death. You shall not be my victim. 

Wil. My death ! — What ! take my life — my life, to prop 
This empty honour I 

Sir E. Empty ! — Grovelling fool ! 

Wil. I am your servant, sir ; child of your bounty, 
And know my obligation. — I have been 
Too curious haply. — Tis the fault of youth ; 
I ne'er meant injury. — If it would serve you, 
I would lay down my life — I'd give it freely. 
Could you, then, have the heart to rob me of it ? 
You could not — should not. 

Sir E. How! 

Wil. You dare not. 

Sir E. Dare not ! 

Wil. Some hours ago you durst not. Passion moved 
you; 



DIALOGUES. 215 

Reflection interposed, and held your arm. 

But, should reflection prompt you to attempt it, 

My innocence would give me strength to struggle, 

And wrest the murderous weapon from your hand, 

How would you look to find a peasant boy 

Return the knife you levelled at his heart ; 

And ask you which in heaven would shew the best, — 

A rich man's honour, or a poor man's honesty ? 

Sir E. Tis plain I dare not take your life. — To spare it, 
I have endangered mine. — But dread my power : 
You know not its extent. — Be warned in time, 
Trifle not with my feelings. — Listen, sir : 
Myriads of engines, which my secret working 
Can rouse to action, now encircle you. 
Your ruin hangs upon a thread ; provoke me, 
And it shall fall upon you. Dare to make 
The slightest movement to awake my fears, 
And the gaunt criminal, naked and stake-tied, 
Left on the heath to blister in the sun, 
Till lingering death shall end his agony, 
Compared to thee, shall seem more enviable 
Than cherubs to the cursed ! 

Wit. Oh, misery ! 
Discard me, sir ; I must be hateful to you. 
Banish me hence : I will be mute as death ; 
But let me quit your service, 

SirE. Never! Fool! 
To buy this secret, you have sold yourself, — 1 
Your movements, eyes, and most of all your breath, 
From this time forth, are fettered to my will. 

Colman. 



VANOC AND VALENS.—Tre Briton. 

Van. Now, Tribune : — 

Val. Health to Vanoc. 

Van. Speak your business. 

Val. I come not as a herald, but a friend : 
And I rejoice that Didius chose out me 
To greet a prince in my esteem the foremost. 

Van. So much for words. — Now to your purpose, 
Tribune. 



216 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Val. Sent by our new lieutenant, who in Rome, 
And since from me has heard of your renown, 
I come to offer peace ; to reconcile 
Past enmities : to strike perpetual league 
With Vanoc ; whom our emperor invites 
To terms of friendship ; strictest bonds of union. 

Van. We must not hold a friendship with the Romans. 

Val. Why must you not ? 

Van. Virtue forbids it. 

Val. Once 
You thought our friendship was your greatest glory. 

Van. I thought you honest. — I have been deceived. 
Would you deceive me twice ? No, Tribune ; no ! 
You sought for war — maintain it as you may. 

Val. Believe me, Prince, your vehemence of spirit, 
Prone ever to extremes, betrays your judgment. 
Would you once coolly reason on our conduct, — 

Van. Oh, I have scanned it thoroughly. — Night and day 
I think it over, and I think it base ; 
Most infamous ! let who will judge — but Romans. 
Did not my wife, did not my menial servant, 
Seducing each the other, both conspire 
Against my crown, against my fame, my life ? 
Did they not levy war and wage rebellion ? 
And when I would assert my right and power 
As king and husband, when I would chastise 
Two most abandoned wretches, who but Romans 
Opposed my justice and maintained their crimes ? 

Val. At first the Romans did not interpose, 
But grieved to see their best allies at variance. 
Indeed, when you turned justice into rigour, 
And even that rigour was pursued with fury, 
We undertook to mediate for the queen, 
And hoped to moderate — 

Van. To moderate ! — 
What would you moderate ? My indignation ; 
The just resentment of a virtuous mind ? 
To mediate for the queen, you undertook ? 
Wherein concerned it you ? But as you love 
To exercise your insolence ! Are you 
To arbitrate my wrongs ? Must I ask leave, 



DIALOGUES. 217 

Must I be taught to govern my own household ? 

Am I then void of reason and of justice ? 

When in my family offences rise, 

Shall strangers, saucy intermeddlers, say, 

Thus far, and thus you are allowed to punish ? 

When I submit to such indignities ; 

When I am tamed to that degree of slavery, 

Make me a citizen, a senator of Rome, 

To watch, to live upon the smile of Claudius ; 

To give my wife and children to his pleasures, 

To sell my country with my voice for bread. 

Val. Prince, you insult upon this day's success, 
You may provoke too far ; but I am cool, 
I give your answer scope. 

Van. Who shall confine it ? 
The Romans ? Let them rule their slaves. I blush, 
That, dazzled in my youth with ostentation, 
The trappings of the men seduced my virtue. 

Val. Blush rather that you are a slave to passion, 
Subservient to the wildness of your will ; 
Which, like a whirlwind, tears up all your virtues, 
And gives you not the leisure to consider. 
Did not the Romans civilize you ? 

Van. No. They brought new customs and new vices 
over, 
Taught us more arts than honest men require, 
And gave us wants that nature never knew. 
Val. We found you naked. 
Van. And you found us free. 

Val. Would you be temperate once, and hear me out ? 
Van. Speak things that honest men may hear with 
temper, 
Speak the plain truth, and varnish not your crimes. 
Say that you once were virtuous, long ago, 
A frugal hardy people, like the Britons, 
Before you grew thus elegant in vice, 
And gave your luxuries the name of virtues. 
The civilizers ! the disturbers, say ; 
The robbers, the corrupters of mankind, — 
Proud vagabonds ! who make the world your home, 
And lord it where you have no right. 

L 



218 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

What virtue have you taught ? 

Val. Humanity. 

Van. Oh, patience ! 

Val. Can yon disown a truth confessed by all ? 
A praise, a glory known in barbarous climes ? 
For as our legions march they carry knowledge, 
The arts, the laws, the discipline of life. 
Our conquests are indulgences, and we 
Not masters, but protectors of mankind. 

Van. Prevaricating, false, — most courteous tyrants. 
Romans ! Rare patterns of humanity ! 
Came you then here, thus far through waves to conquer, 
To waste, to plunder, out of mere compassion ? 
Is it humanity that prompts you on 
To ravage the whole earth, to burn, destroy ? 
To raise the cry of widows and of orphans ? 
To lead in bonds the generous free-born princes, 
Who spurn, who fight against your tyranny ? 
Happy for us, and happy for you spoilers, 
Had your humanity ne'er reached our world. 
It is a virtue (so it seems you call it), 
A Roman virtue that hast cost you dear : 
And dearer shall it cost if Vanoc lives. 
Or if we die, we shall leave those behind us 
Who know the worth of British liberty. 

Anon. 



SCENES ARRANGED FROM 
DRAMATIC WRITERS. 



BARBAROSSA. 
Barbarossa and Selim disguised as Achmet. 

Sel. Hail, mighty Barbarossa ! As the pledge 
Of Selim's death behold thy ring restored, — 
That pledge will speak the rest. 

Bar. Rise, valiant youth; 
But first no more a slave — I give thee freedom. 
Thou art the youth, whom Omar (now no more) 
Join'd his companion in this brave attempt. 

Sel. I am. 

Bar. Then tell me how you sped. — Where found ye 
That insolent ? 

Sel. We found him at Oran, 
Plotting deep mischief to thy throne and people. 

Bar. Well ye repaid the traitor — 

Sel. As we ought. 
While night drew on, we leaped upon our prey. 
Full at his heart brave Omar aimed the poinard, 
Which Selim shunning, wrenched it from his hand, 
Then plunged it in his breast. I hasted on, 
Too late to save, yet I revenged my friend : 
My thirsty dagger, with repeated blows, 
Searched every artery : they fell together, 
Gasping in folds of mortal enmity : 
And thus in frowns expired. 

Bar. Well hast thou sped : 
Thy dagger did its office, faithful Achmet ! 
And high reward shall wait thee. — One thing more — 
Be the thought fortunate ! — Go seek the queen. 
For know, the rumour of her Selim's death 
Hath reached her ear : hence dark suspicions^ ise, 



220 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Glancing at me. Go tell her that thou saw'st 
Her son expire ; — that with his dying breath 
He did conjure her to receive my vows, 
And give her country peace. 

Enter Othman and Aladin. 

Most welcome, Othman ; 

Behold this gallant stranger. He hath done 

The state good service. Let some high reward 

Await him, such as may o'erpay his zeal. 

Conduct him to the queen ; for he hath news 

Worthy her ear from her departed son, 

Such as may win her love. [Exit. 

Sel. What anxious thought 
Rolls in thine eye, and heaves thy labouring breast ? 
Why join'st thou not the loud excess of joy 
That riots through the palace ? 

Oth. Dar'st thou tell me 
On what dark errand thou art here ? 

Sel. I dare. 
Dost thou not perceive the savage lines of blood 
Deform my visage ? — 

I am Selim's murd'rer. Read'st not in mine eye — 
Remorseless fury — 

Oth. Selim's murderer ? 

Sel. Start not from me. 
My dagger thirsts not but for regal blood — 
Why this amazement ? 

Oth. Amazement ! — No — 'tis well : 'tis as it should be 
He was indeed a foe to Barbarossa. 

Sel. And therefore to Algiers : — Was it not so ? 
Why dost thou pause : what passion shakes thy frame? 

Oth. Fate, do thy worst ! I can no more dissemble ; 
Can I unmoved behold the murdering ruffian, 
Smeared with my prince's blood ! — Go, tell the tyrant 
Othman defies his power ; that tired with life, 
He dares his bloody hand, and pleads to die. 

Sel. What, didst thou love this Selim ? 

Oth. All men lov'd him. 
He was of such unmix'd and blameless quality, 
That envy at his praise stood mute, nor dared 
Tq sully his fair name. Remorseless tyrant! — 



SCENES FROM DRAMATIC WRITERS, 221 

Sel I do commend thy faith. And since thou lov'st him, 
I'll whisper to thee, that with honest guile 
I have deceiv'd this tyrant Barbarossa. 
Selim is yet alive. 

Oth. Alive! 

Sel. Nay, more— 
Selim is in Algiers. 

Oth,. Impossible ! 

Sel. Nay, if thou doubt' st, I'll bring him hither straight. 

Oth. Not for an empire ! 
Thou might'st as well bring the devoted lamb 
Into the tiger's den. 

Sel. But I'll bring him 
Hid in such deep disguise, as shall deride 
Suspicion, though she wear lynx's eyes. 
Not even thyself could know him. 

Oth. Yes, sure : too sure to hazard such an awful trial. 

Sel. Yet seven revolving years, worn out 
In tedious exile, may have wrought such change 
Of voice and feature in the state of youth, 
As might elude thine eye. 

Oth. No time can blot 
The memory of his sweet majestic mien. 
The lustre of his eye ! Besides, he wears 
A mark indelible, a beauteous scar> 
Made on his forehead by a furious pard, 
Which, rushing on his mother, Selim slew. 

Sel. A scar ? 

Oth. Ay, on his forehead. 

Sel What ! like this ? 

Oth. Whom do I see ? — Am I awake, — my prince ! 
My honoured honoured king ! [Kneels. 

Sel. Rise, faithful Othman : 
Thus let me thank thy truth! [Embraces him. 

Oth. O happy hour ! 

Sel. Why dost thou tremble thus ? Why grasp my hand ? 
And why that ardent gaze ? Thou canst not doubt me ? 

Oth. Ah, no! I see thy sire in every line. — 
How did my prince escape the murderer's hand ? 

Sel. I wrench' d the dagger from him ; and gave back 
That death he meant to bring. The ruffian wore 



222 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

The tyrant's signet : — " Take this ring," he cried, 
" The sole return my dying hand can make thee 
For its accurst attempt ; this pledge restored, 
Will prove thee slain : safe mayst thou see Algiers, 
Unknown to all." — This said, th' assassin died. 

Oth. But how to gain admittance, thus unknown ? 

Sel. Disguised as Selim's murderer I come : 
Th' accomplice of the deed : the ring restored, 
Gained credence to my words. 

Oth. Yet, ere thou earnest, thy death was rumoured here. 

Sel. I spread the nattering tale, and sent it hither ; 
That babbling rumour, like a lying dream, 
Might make belief more easy. Tell me, Othman, 
And yet I tremble to approach the theme, — 
How fares my mother ? Does she still retain 
Her native greatness ? 

Oth. Still : — in vain the tyrant 
Tempts her to marriage, and with impious threats. 

Sel. May kind heaven 
Strengthen her virtue, and by me reward it ! 
When shall I see her, Othman ? 

Oth. Brave prince, beware ! 
Her joy's or fear's excess would sure betray thee. 
Thou shalt not see her till the tyrant perish ! 

Sel. I must ; I feel some secret impulse urge me. 
Who knows that 'tis not the last parting interview 
We ever shall obtain ? 

Oth. Then, on my life 
Do not reveal thyself. — Assume the name 
Of Selim's friend, sent to confirm her virtue, 
And warn her that he lives. 

Sel. It shall be so. I yield me to thy will. 

Oth. Thou greatly daring youth ! May angels watch 
And guard thy upright purpose ! That Algiers 
May reap the blessings of a virtuous reign, 
And all thy god-like father shine in thee ! 

Sel. Oh, thou hast roused a thought on which revenge 
Mounts with redoubled fire ! — Yes, here, even here, — 
Beneath this very roof, my honoured father 
Shed round his blessings, till accursed treachery 
Stole on his peaceful hour ! O blessed shade! 
If yet thou hoverest o'er thy once loved clime, 



SCENES FROM DRAMATIC WRITERS. 223 

Now aid me to redress thy bleeding wrongs ; 
Infuse thy mighty spirit into my breast, 
Thy firm and dauntless fortitude, unawed 
By peril, pain, or death ! that, undismay'd, 
I may pursue the just intent, and dare 
Or bravely to revenge, or bravely die. 

Brown. 



CATO'S SENATE. 
Cato, Sempronius, Lucius, etc. 

Cato. Fathers, we once again are met in council. 
Caesar's approach has summoned us together, 
And Rome attends her fate from our resolves. 
How shall we treat this bold, aspiring man ? 
Success still follows him, and backs his crimes. 
Pharsalia gave him Rome : Egypt has since 
Received his yoke, and the whole Nile is Caesar's. 
Why should I mention Juba's overthrow 
And Scipio's death ? Numidia's burning sands 
Still smoke with blood. Tis time we should decree 
What course to take. Our foe advances on us, 
And envies us even Libya's sultry deserts. 
Fathers, pronounce your thoughts : are they still fixed 
To hold it out and fight it to the last ? 
Or are your hearts subdued at length, and wrought 
By time and ill success to a submission ? 
Sempronius, speak. 

Semp. My voice is still for war. 
Gods ! can a Roman senate long debate 
Which of the two to choose, slavery or death ? 
No ; let us rise at once, gird on our swords, 
And at the head of our remaining troops, 
Attack the foe, break through the thick array 
Of his thronged legions, and charge home upon him. 
Perhaps some arm, more lucky than the rest, 
May reach his heart, and free the world from bondage. 
Rise, fathers, rise ! 'tis Rome demands your help ; 
Rise, and revenge her slaughtered citizens, 
Or share their fate ! the corpse of half her senate 
Manure the fields of Thessaly, while we 
Sit here deliberating in cold debates 



224 . THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

If we should sacrifice our lives to honour, 
Or wear them out in servitude and chains. 
Rouse up, for shame ! our brothers of Pharsalia 
Point at their wounds, and cry aloud — To battle ! 
Great Pompey's shade complains that we are slow, 
And Scipio's ghost walks unrevenged amongst us ! 

Cato. Let not a torrent of impetuous zeal 
Transport thee thus beyond the bounds of reason : 
True fortitude is seen in great exploits 
That justice warrants, and that wisdom guides: 
All else is towering phrenzy and distraction. 
Are not the lives of those who draw the sword 
In Rome's defence intrusted to our care ? 
Should we thus lead them to a field of slaughter, 
Might not the impartial world with reason say, 
We lavished at our deaths the blood of thousands, 
To grace our fall, and make our ruin glorious ? 
Lucius, we next would know what's your opinion. 

Lucius. My thoughts, I must confess, are turned on 
peace. 
Already have our quarrels filled the world 
With widows and with orphans : Scythia mourns 
Our guilty wars, and earth's remotest regions 
Lie half-unpeopled by the feuds of Rome : 
*Tis time to sheathe the sword, and spare mankind. 
It is not Caesar, but the gods, my fathers, 
The gods declare against us, and repel 
Our vain attempts. To urge the foe to battle 
(Prompted by blind revenge and wild despair), 
Were to refuse the awards of providence, 
And not to rest in heaven's determination. 
Already have we shown our love to Rome ; 
Now let us show submission to the gods. 
We took up arms, not to revenge ourselves, 
But free the commonwealth ; when this end fails, 
Arms have no further use : our country's cause, 
That drew our swords, now wrests them from our hands, 
And bids us not delight in Roman blood, 
Unprofitably shed : what men could do 
Is done already: heaven and earth will witness, 
If Rome must fall, that we are innocent. 



SCENES FROM DRAMATIC WRITERS. 225 

Semp. This smooth discourse, and mild behaviour, oft 
Conceal a traitor. Something whispers me 
All is not right. Cato, beware of Lucius. 

Goto. Let us appear nor rash nor diffident: 
Immoderate valour swells into a fault ; 
And fear, admitted into public councils, 
Betrays like treason. Let us shun them both. 
Fathers, I cannot see that our affairs 
Are grown thus desperate : we have bulwarks round us ; 
Within our walls are troops inured to toil 
In Afric's heats, and seasoned to the sun; 
Numidia's spacious kingdom lies behind us, 
Ready to rise at its young prince's call. 
While there is hope, do not distrust the gods ; 
But wait at least till Csesar's near approach 
Force us to yield. 'Twill never be too late 
To sue for chains, and own a conqueror. 
Why should Rome fall a moment ere her time ? 
No, let us draw her term of freedom out 
In its full length, and spin it to the last, 
So shall we gain still one day's liberty; 
And let me perish, but in Cato's judgment, 
A day, an hour, of virtuous liberty, 
Is worth a whole eternity in bondage. 

Enter Marcus. 

Marc. Fathers, this moment, as I watched the gate, 
Lodged on my post, a herald is arrived 
From Csesar's camp, and with him comes old Decius, 
The Roman knight: he carries in his looks 
Impatience, and demands to speak with Cato. 

Cato. By your permission, fathers, bid him enter. 
Decius was once my friend ; but other prospects 
Have loosed those ties, and bound him fast to Caesar. 
His message may determine our resolves. 

Enter Decius. 

Dec. Caesar sends health to Cato. 

Cato. Could he send it 
To Cato's slaughtered friends, it would be welcome. 
Are not your orders to address the senate ? 
l 5 



226 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Dec. My business is with Cato ; Caesar sees 
The straits to which you 're driven ; and, as he knows 
Cato's high worth, is anxious for your life. 

Cato. My life is grafted on the fate of Rome. 
Would he save Cato, bid him spare his country. 
Tell your dictator this : and tell him, Cato 
Disdains a life which he has power to offer. 

Dec. Rome and her senators submit to Caesar ; 
Her generals and her consuls are no more, 
Who checked his conquests, and denied his triumphs. 
Why will not Cato be this Caesar's friend ? 

Cato. Those very reasons thou hast urged forbid it. 

Dec. Cato, I've orders to expostulate 
And reason with you, as from friend to friend. 
Think on the storm that gathers o'er your head, 
And threatens every hour to burst upon it ; 
Still may you stand high in your country's honours, 
Do but comply, and make your peace with Caesar. 
Rome will rejoice, and cast its eyes on Cato, 
As on the second of mankind. 

Cato. No more : 
I must not think of life on such conditions. 

Dec. Caesar is well acquainted with your virtues, 
And therefore sets this value on your life : 
Let him but know the price of Cato's friendship, 
And name your terms. 

Cato. Bid him disband his legions, 
Restore the commonwealth to liberty, 
Submit his actions to the public censure, 
And stand the judgment of a Roman senate. 
Bid him do this, and Cato is his friend. 

Dec. Cato, the world talks loudly of your wisdom — 

Cato. Nay, more, though Cato's voice was ne'er em- 
ployed 
To clear the guilty, and to varnish crimes, 
Myself will mount the rostrum in his favour, 
And strive to gain his pardon from the people. 

Dec. A style like this becomes a conqueror. 

Cato. Decius, a style like this becomes a Roman. 

Dec. What is a Roman, that is Caesar's foe ? 

Cato. Greater than Caesar : he's a friend to virtue. 



SCENES PROM DRAMATIC WRITERS. 227 

Dec. Consider, Cato, you 're in Utica, 
And at the head of your own little senate ; 
You dont now thunder in the Capitol, 
With all the mouths of Rome to second you. 

Cato. Let him consider that, who drives us hither. 
'Tis Caesar's sword has made Rome's senate little, 
And thinned its ranks. Alas ! thy dazzled eye 
Beholds this man in a false glaring light, 
Which conquest and success have thrown upon him ; 
Did'st thou but view him right, thou'dst see him black 
With murder, treason, sacrilege, and crimes, 
That strike my soul with horror but to name them. 
I know thou look'st on me, as on a wretch 
Beset with ills, and covered with misfortunes ; 
But, as I love my country, millions of worlds 
Should never buy me to be like that Caesar. 

Dec. Does Cato send this answer back to Caesar, 
For all his generous cares, and proffered friendship ? 

Cato. His cares for me are insolent and vain: 
Presumptuous man ! The gods take care of Cato. 
Would Caesar show the greatness of his soul, 
Bid him employ his care for these my friends, 
And make good use of his ill-gotten power, 
By sheltering men much better than himself. 

Dec. Your high, unconquered heart makes you forget 
You are a man. You rush on your destruction : 
But I have done. When I relate hereafter 
The tale of this unhappy embassy, 
All Rome will be in tears. Addison. 



CORIOLANUS, MENENIUS, etc.— Coriolanus. 

Cor. Tullus Aufidius then had made new head. 

Men. He had, my lord ; and that it was which caused 
Our swifter composition. 

Cor. So then the Volsces stand but as at first ; 
Ready, when time shall prompt them, to make road 
Upon us again. 

Men. They are worn, lord consul, so 



228 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

That we shall hardly in our ages see 
Their banners wave again. 

Cor. Saw you Aufidius ? 

Men. On safeguard he came to me; and did curse 
Against the Volsces, for they had so vilely 
Yielded the town : he is retired to Antium. 

Cor. Spoke he of me ? 

Men. He did, my lord. 

Cor. How? What? 

Men. How often he had met you sword to sword : 
That of all things upon the earth he hated 
Your person most: that he would pawn his fortunes 
To hopeless restitution, so he might 
Be called your vanquisher. 

Cor. At Antium lives he ? 

Men. At Antium. 

Cor. I wish I had a cause to seek him there, 
To oppose his hatred fully. Welcome home. (To Menenius). 

Enter Sicinius and Brutus. 

Behold ! these are the tribunes of the people ; 

The tongues o' the common mouth. I do despise them ; 

For they do prank them in authority, 

Against all noble sufferance. 

Sic. Pass no further. 

Cor. Ha ! what is that ? 

Bru. It will be dangerous to go on : no further. 

Cor. What makes this change ? 

Men. The matter ? 
Hath he not passed the nobles and the commons ? 

Bru. Menenius, no : 
The people are incens'd against him. 

Sic. Stop, 
Or all will fall in broil. 

Cor. Are these your herd ? 
Must these have voices, that can yield them now, 
And straight disclaim their tongues? What are your 

offices ? 
You being their mouths, why rule you not their teeth ? 
Have you not set them on ? 

Men. Be calm, be calm. 



SCENES FROM DRAMATIC WRITERS. 229 

Cor. It is a purposed thing, and grows by plot, 
To curb the will of the nobility : 
Suffer it, and live with such as cannot rule, 
Nor ever will be ruled. 

Bru. Call 't not a plot : 
The people cry you mocked them ; and, of late, 
When corn was given them gratis, you repined; 
Scandal'd the suppliants for the people ; called them 
Time-pleasers, flatterers, foes to nobleness. 

Cor. Why, this was known before. 

Bru. Not to them all. 

Cor. Have you informed them since ? 

Bru. How ! I inform them ! 

Cor. You are like to do such business. 

Bru. Not unlike, 
Each way, to better yours. 

Cor. Why then should I be consul ? By yon clouds, 
Let me deserve so ill as you, and make me 
Your fellow tribune. l . 

Sic. You show too much of that 
For which the people stir : If you will pass 
To where you are bound, you must inquire your way 
Which you are out of, with a gentler spirit ; 
Or never be so noble as a consul, 
Nor yoke with him for tribune. 

Men. Let's be calm. 

Cor. Tell me of corn ! 
This was my speech, and I will speak 't again ; — 

Men. Not now, not now. 

Cor. Now, as I live, I will. My nobler friends, 
I crave their pardons : 
For the mutable, rank-scented many, 
Let them regard me as I do not flatter, 
And therein behold themselves : I say again, 
In soothing them, we nourish 'gainst our senate 
The cockle of rebellion, insolence, sedition, 
Which we ourselves have ploughed for, sowed, and scat- 
tered, 
By mingling them with us, the honoured number; 
Who lack not virtue, no, nor power, but that 
Which they have given to beggars. 



230 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Men. Well, no more. 

Cor. How ! no more ? 
As for my country I have shed my blood, 
Not fearing outward force ; so shall my lungs 
Coin words till their decay, against those meazels, 
Which we disdain should tetter us, yet sought 
The very way to catch them. 

Bru. You speak o' the people as if you were a god 
To punish ; not a man of their infirmity. 

Sic. 'Twere well we let the people know't. 

Men. What, what ? His choler ? 

Cor. Choler! 
Were I as patient as the midnight sleep, 
By Jove, 'twould be my mind ! 

Sic. It is a mind 
That shall remain a poison where it is, 
Not poison any further. 

Cor. Shall remain ! 
Hear you this triton of the minnows ? Mark you 
His absolute shall ? 

good, but most unwise patricians, why 

You grave, but reckless senators, have you thus 
Given Hydra here to choose an officer, 
And such a one as he who puts his shall, 
His popular shall, against a graver bench 
Than ever frowned in Greece ? By Jove himself 
It makes the consuls base ! And my soul aches 
To know, when two authorities are up, 
Neither supreme, how soon confusion 
May enter twixt the gap of both, and take 
The one by the other. 

Men. Well, on to the market place. 

Cor. Whoever gave that counsel to give forth 
The corn o' the storehouse gratis, as 'twas used 
Sometime in Greece, — 

Men. Well, well, no more of that. 

Cor. Though there the people had more absolute power, 

1 say, they nourished disobedience, fed 
The ruin of the state. 

Bru. Why shall the people give 
One that speaks thus, their voice ? 



SCENES FROM DRAMATIC WRITERS. 231 

Cor. I'll give my reasons, 
More worthier than their voices. They know the corn 
Was not our recompense ; — let deeds express 
What's like to be their words : — " We did request it ; 
We are the greater poll, and in true fear 
They gave us our demands :" — Thus we debase 
The nature of our seats, and make the rabble 
Call our cares fears : which will in time 
Break ope the locks o* the senate, and bring in 
The crows to peck the eagles. 

Men. Come, enough. 

Bru. Enough, with over measure. 

Sic. He has spoken like a traitor, and shall answer 
As traitors do. 

Cor. Thou wretch ! Despite o'erwhelm thee ! 
What should the people do with these bold tribunes ; 
On whom depending, their obedience fails 
To the greater bench : In a rebellion, 
When what's not meet, but what must be, was law, 
Then were they chosen ; in a better hour, 
Let what is meet be said, it must be meet, 
And throw their power i* the dust. 

Bru. Manifest treason ! 

Sic. We charge you that you have contrived to take 
From Rome all seasoned office, and to wind 
Yourself into a power tyrannical ; 
For which you are a traitor to the people. 

Cor. How ! traitor ? 

Men. Nay ; temperately : your promise. 

Cor. Call me their traitor ! — Thou injurious tribune ! 
Within thine eyes sat twenty thousand deaths, 
In thy hands clutch'd as many millions, in 
Thy lying tongue both numbers, I would say, 
Thou liest, unto thee, with a voice as free 
As I do pray the gods. 

Sic. Peace ! 
We need not put new matter to his charge : 
What you have seen him do and heard him speak, 
Deserves the extremest death. 

Bru. But since he hath served well for Rome, — 

Cor. What ! do you prate of service ? 



232 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Bru. I talk of that, that know it. 

Cor. You ? 

Men. Is this the promise that you made your mother ? 

Cor. I'll know no further : 
Let them pronounce the steep Tarpeian death, 
Vagabond exile, flaying, pent to linger 
But with a grain a day, I would not buy 
Their mercy at the price of one fair word, 
Nor check my courage for what they can give, 
To have 't with saying. " Good morrow." 

Bru. For that he has, 
(As much as in him lies), from time to time, 
Envied against the people, seeking means 
To pluck away their power ; as now at last 
Given hostile strokes, and that not in the presence 
Of dreaded justice, but on the ministers 
That do distribute it. In the name o' the people, 
And in the power of us, the tribunes, we, 
Even from this instant, banish him our city ; 
In peril of precipitation 
From off the rock Tarpeian, never more 
To enter our Rome gates ; i' the people's name, 
I say it shall be so. 

Men. Hear me, my masters and my common friends ;- 

Bru. There's no more to be said, but he is banished, 
As enemy to the people and his country : 
It shall be so. 

Cor. You common cry of curs ! whose breath I hate 
As reck o' the rotten fens, whose loves I prize 
As the dead carcases of unburied men 
That do corrupt my air, I banish you ; 
And here remain with your uncertainty ! 
Let every feeble rumour shake your hearts ! 
Your enemies, with nodding of their plumes, 
Fan you into despair ! Have the power still 
To banish your defenders ; till, at length, 
Your ignorance (which finds not till it feels), 
Making not reservation of yourselves, 
(Still your own foes), deliver you, 
As most abated captives, to some nation 
That won you without blows ! Despising, 



SCENES FROM DRAMATIC WRITERS. 233 

For you, the city, thus I turn my back : 
There is a world elsewhere. 

Shakespere. 



DOUGLAS. 

Glenalvon, Norval, etc. 

Glen. His port I love : he 's in a proper mood [Aside. 
To chide the thunder if at him it roared. 
Has Norval seen the troops ? 

Norv. The setting sun 
With yellow radiance lightened all the vale, 
And as the warriors moved, each polished helm, 
Corslet or spear, glanced back his gilded beams. 
The hill they climbed, and, halting at its top, 
Of more than mortal size, towering they seemed 
A host angelic, clad in burning arms. 

Glen., Thou talk'st it well ; no leader of our host, 
In sounds more lofty, talks of glorious war. 

Norv. If I should e'er acquire a leader's name 
My speech will be less ardent. Novelty 
Now prompts my tongue, and youthful admiration 
Vents itself freely ; since no part is mine 
Of praise pertaining to the great in arms. 

Glen. You wrong yourself, brave sir, your martial deeds 
Have ranked you with the great. But mark me, Norval; 
Lord Randolph's favour now exalts your youth 
Above his veterans of famous service. 
Let me, who know these soldiers, counsel you. 
Give them all honour : seem not to command, 
Else they will hardly brook your late- sprung power, 
Which nor alliance props nor birth adorns. 

Norv. Sir, I have been accustomed all my days 
To hear and speak the plain and simple truth ; 
And though I have been told that there are men 
Who borrow friendship's tongue to speak their scorn, 
Yet in such language I am little skilled ; 
Therefore I thank Glenalvon for his counsel, 
Although it sounded harshly. Why remind 
Me of my birth obscure ? Why slur my power 
With such contemptuous terms ? 



234 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Glen. I did not mean 
To gall your pride, which now I see is great. 

Norv. My pride ! 

Glen. Suppress it as you wish to prosper ; 
Your pride's excessive. Yet, for Randolph's sake, 
I will not leave you to its rash direction. 
If thus you swell, and frown at high-horn men, 
With high-born men endure a shepherd's scorn ? 

Norv. A shepherd's scorn ! 

Glen. Yes, if you presume 
To bend on soldiers those disdainful eyes 
As if you took the measure of their minds, 
And said in secret, You're no match for me, 
What will become of you ? 

Norv. Hast thou no fears for thy presumptuous self? 

Glen. Ha ! dost thou threaten me ? 

Norv. Didst thou not hear ? 

Glen. Unwillingly I did ; a nobler foe 
Had not been questioned thus ; but such as thee — 

Norv. Whom dost thou think me ? 

Glen. Norval. 

Norv. So I am — 
And who is Norval in Glenalvon's eyes ? 

Glen. A peasant's son, a wandering beggar boy; 
At best no more, even if he speaks the truth. 

Norv. False as thou art, dost thou suspect my truth ? 

Glen. Thy truth ; thou'rt all a lie ; and false as hell 
Is the vain glorious tale thou told'st to Randolph. 

Norv. If I were chained, unarmed, or bedrid old, 
Perhaps I should revile ; but as I am, 
I have no tongue to rail. The humble Norval 
Is of a race who strive not but with deeds. 
Did I not fear to freeze thy shallow valour, 
And make thee sink too soon beneath my sword, 
I'd tell thee — what thou art. I know thee well. 

Glen. Dost thou not know Glenalvon, born to command 
Ten thousand slaves like thee ? 

Norv. Villain, no more ! 
Draw and defend thy life. I did design 
To have defied thee in another cause ; 
But heaven accelerates its vengeance on thee. 
Now for my own and Lady Randolph's wrongs. 



SCENES FROM DRAMATIC WRITERS. 235 

Enter Lord Randolph. 

Lord Rand. Hold ! I command you both ! the man that 
stirs 
Makes me his foe. 

Norv. Another voice than thine, 
That threat had vainly sounded, noble Randolph, 

Glen. Hear him, my Lord; he's wondrous condescending! 
Mark the humility of shepherd Norval 1 

Norv. Now you may scoff in safety. 

Lord Rand. Speak not thus, 
Taunting each other, but unfold to me ■ 
The cause of quarrel ; then I judge betwixt you. 

Norv. Nay, my good lord, though I revere you much, 
My cause I plead not, nor demand your judgment. 
I blush to speak : and will not, cannot speak 
The opprobrious words that I from him have borne. 
To the liege lord of my dear native land 
I owe a subject's homage ; but even him 
And his high arbitration I'd reject: 
Within my bosom reigns another lord ; 
Honour, sole judge and umpire of itself. 
If my free speech offend you, noble Randolph, 
Revoke your favours, and let Norval go 
Hence as he came, but not dishonoured ! 

Lord Rand. Thus far I'll mediate with impartial voice ; 
The ancient foe of Caledonia's land 
Now waves his banner o'er her frighted fields ; 
Suspend your purpose till your country's arms 
Repel the bold invader ; then decide 
The private quarrel. 

Glen. I agree to this. 

Norv. And I. 

Glen. Norval, 
Let not our variance mar the social hour. 
Nor wrong the hospitality of Randolph 
Nor frowning anger, nor yet wrinkled hate 
Shall stain my countenance. Smooth thou thy brow ; 
Nor let our strife disturb the gentle dame. 

Norv. Think not so lightly, sir, of my resentment ; 
When we contend again, our strife is mortal. 

Home. 



236 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

HENRY IV.— Part I. 

Enter King Henry, Northumberland, Worcester, 
Hotspur, Sir Walter Blunt, and others. 

K. Hen. My blood hath been too cold and temperate, 
Unapt to stir at these indignities, 
And you have found me ; for accordingly, 
You tread upon my patience : but, be sure, 
I will from henceforth rather be myself, 
Mighty, and to be feared, than my condition ; 
Which hath been smooth as oil, soft as young down, 
And therefore lost that title of respect, 
Which the proud soul ne'er pays, but to the proud. 

Wor. Our house, my sovereign liege, little deserves 
The scourge of greatness to be used on it ; 
And that same greatness, too, which our own hands 
Have holp to make so portly. 

North. My lord, — 

K. Hen. Worcester, get thee gone, for I do see 
Danger and disobedience in thine eye: 
O sir, your presence is too bold and peremptory, 
And majesty might never yet endure 
The moody frontier of a servant brow. 
You have good leave to leave us ; when we need 
Your use and counsel, we shall send for you. 

[Exit Worcester. 
You were about to speak. \_To North. 

North. Yea, my good lord. 
Those prisoners in your highness' name demanded, 
Which Harry Percy here at Holmedon took, 
Were, as he says, not with such strength denied 
As was delivered to your majesty : 
Either envy, therefore, or misprision 
Is guilty of this fault, and not my son. 

Hot. My liege, I did deny no prisoners. 
But, I remember, when the fight was done, 
When I was dry with rage, and extreme toil, 
Breathless and faint, leaning upon my sword, 
Came there a certain lord, neat and trimly dressed, 
Fresh as a bridegroom ; and his chin, new reaped, 
Showed like a stubble-land at harvest-home ; 



SCENES FROM DRAMATIC WRITERS. 237 

He was perfumed like a milliner ; 

And 'twixt his finger and his thumb he held 

A pouncet-box, which ever and anon 

He gave his nose, and took 't away again ; — 

Who, therewith angry, when it next came there, 

Took it in snuff: — and still he smiled, and talked; 

And, as the soldiers bore dead bodies by, 

He called them — untaught knaves, unmannerly, 

To bring a slovenly unhandsome corse 

Betwixt the wind and his nobility. 

With many holiday and lady terms 

He questioned me ; among the rest demanded 

My prisoners, in your majesty's behalf. 

I then, all smarting, with my wounds being cold, 

To be so pestered with a popinjay, 

Out of my grief aud my impatience, 

Answered neglectingly, I know not what ; 

He should, or he should not ; — for he made me mad, 

To see him shine so brisk, and smell so sweet, 

And talk so like a waiting-gentlewoman, 

Of guns, and drums, and wounds (God save the mark !), 

And telling me, the sovereign'st thing on earth 

Was parmaceti, for an inward bruise ; 

And that it was great pity, so it was, 

That villanous saltpetre should be digged 

Out of the bowels of the harmless earth, 

Which many a good tall fellow had destroyed 

So cowardly ; and, but for these vile guns, 

He would himself have been a soldier. 

This bald unjointed chat of his, my lord, 

I answered directly, as I said; 

And, I beseech you, let not this report 

Come current for an accusation, 

Betwixt my love and your high majesty. 

Blunt. The circumstance considered, good my lord, 
Whatever Harry Percy then hath said, 
To such a person, and in such a place, 
At such a time, with all the rest re-told, 
May reasonably die, and never rise 
To do him wrong, or any way impeach 
What then he said, so he unsay it now 



238 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

K. Hen. Why, yet he doth deny his prisoners ; 
But with proviso, and exception, — 
That we, at our own charge, shall ransom straight 
His brother-in-law, the foolish Mortimer ; 
Who, on my soul, hath wilfully betrayed 
The lives of those that he did lead to fight 
Against the great magician, Owen Glen dower ; 
Whose daughter, as we hear, the Earl of March 
Hath lately married. Shall our coffers then 
Be emptied, to redeem a traitor home ? 
Shall we buy treason ? and indent with fears, 
When they have lost and forfeited themselves ? 
No, on the barren mountains let him starve ; 
For I shall never hold that man my friend, 
Whose tongue shall ask me for one penny cost 
To ransom home revolted Mortimer. 

Hot. Revolted Mortimer ! 
He never did fall off, my sovereign liege, 
But by the chance of war ; — To prove that true, 
Needs no more but one tongue for all those wounds, 
Those mouthed wounds, which valiantly he took, 
When on the gentle Severn's sedgy bank, 
In single opposition, hand to hand, 
He did confound the best part of an hour 
In changing hardiment with great Glendower : 
Three times they breathed, and three times did they drink, 
Upon agreement, of swift Severn's flood ; 
Who then, affrighted with their bloody looks,* 
Ran fearfully among the trembling reeds, 
And hid his crisp head in the hollow bank, 
Blood-stained with these valiant combatants. 
Never did base and rotten policy 
Colour her working with such deadly wounds ; 
Nor never could the noble Mortimer 
Receive so many, and all willingly : 
Then let him not be slandered with revolt. 

K. Hen. Thou dost belie him, Percy, thou dost belie him, 
He never did encounter with Glendower ; 
I teU thee, 

He durst as well have met the devil alone, 
As Owen Glendower for an enemy. 



SCENES FROM DRAMATIC WRITERS, 239 

Art thou not ashamed ? But, sirrah, henceforth 

Let me not hear you speak of Mortimer : 

Send me your prisoners with the speediest means, 

Or you shall hear in such a kind from me 

As will displease you. — My lord Northumberland, 

We license your departure with your son : — 

Send us your prisoners, or you '11 hear of it. 

[Exeunt King Henry, Blunt, etc. 

Hot. And if the devil come and roar for them 
I will not send them : — I will after straight, 
And tell him so ; for I will ease my heart, 
Although it be with hazard of my head. 

North. What, drunk with choler ? # stay, and pause 
awhile ; 
Here comes your uncle. 

Re-enter Worcester. 

Hot. Speak of Mortimer ? 
'Zounds, I will speak of him ; and let my soul 
Want mercy, if I do not join with him: 
In his behalf, I '11 empty all these veins, 
And shed my dear blood drop by drop i' the dust, 
But I will lift the down-trod Mortimer 
As high i' the air as this unthankful king, 
As this ingrate and cankered Bolingbroke. 

North. Brother, the king hath made your nephew mad. 

[To Worcester. 

Wor. Who struck this heat up, after I was gone ? 

Hot. He will, forsooth, have all my prisoners ; 
And when I urged the ransom once again 
Of my wife's brother, then his cheek looked pale ; 
And on my face he turned an eye of death, 
Trembling even at the name of Mortimer. 

Wor. I cannot blame him : Was he not proclaimed, 
By Richard that dead is, the next of blood ? 

North. He was ; I heard the proclamation : 
And then it was, when the unhappy king 
(Whose wrongs in us God pardon !) did set forth 
Upon his Irish expedition ; 
From whence he, intercepted, did return 
To be deposed, and shortly, murthered. 



240 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Wor. And for whose death, we in the world's wide 
mouth 
Live scandaliz'd, and foully spoken of. 

Hot. But soft, I pray you ; Did King Richard then 
Proclaim my brother Mortimer 
Heir to the crown ? 

North, He did ; myself did hear it. 

Hot. Nay, then I cannot blame his cousin king, 
That wished him on the barren mountains starved, 
Therefore I say, — 

Wor. Peace, cousin, say no more : 
And now I will unclasp a secret book, 
And to your quick- conceiving discontents 
I '11 read you matter deep and dangerous ; 
As full of peril and adventurous spirit, 
As to o'er- walk a current, roaring loud, 
On the unsteadfast footing of a spear. 

Hot. If he fall in, good night : — or sink or swim : — 
Send danger from the east unto the west, 
So honour cross it from the north to south, 
And let them grapple ; — the blood more stirs 
To rouse a lion, than to start a hare. 

North. Imagination of some great exploit 
Drives him beyond the bounds of patience. 

Hot. By heaven, methinks, it were an easy leap, 
To pluck bright honour from the pale-faced moon ; 
Or dive into the bottom of the deep, 
Where fathom-line could never touch the ground, 
And pluck up drowned honour by the locks ; 
So he, that doth redeem her thence, might wear, 
Without corrival, all her dignities : 
But out upon this half- faced fellowship. 

Wor. He apprehends a world of figures here, 
But not the form of what he should attend. — 
Good cousin, give me audience for a while. 

Hot. I cry you mercy. 

Wor. Those same noble Scots, 
That are your prisoners, — 

Hot. I '11 keep them all ; 
By heaven, he shall not have a Scot of them : 
No, if a Scot would save his soul, he shall not : 



SCENES FROM DRAMATIC WRITERS. 241 

I '11 keep them, by this hand. 

Wor. You start away, 
And lend no ear unto my purposes. — 
Those prisoners you shall keep. 

Hot. Nay, I will; that's flat: — 
He said, he would not ransom Mortimer ; 
Forbade my tongue to speak of Mortimer ; 
But I will find him when he lies asleep, 
And in his ear I '11 holla — Mortimer ! 
Nay, I '11 have a starling shall be taught to speak 
Nothing but Mortimer, and give it hiin, 
To keep his anger still in motion. 

Wor. Hear you, cousin ; a word. 

Hot. All studies here I solemnly defy, 
Save how to gall and pinch this Bolingbroke : 
And that same sword-and-buckler Prince of Wales. — 
But that I think his father loves him not, 
And would be glad he met with some mischance, 
I'd have him poisoned with a pot of ale. 

Wor. Farewell, kinsman ! I will talk to you, 
When you are better tempered to attend. 

North. Why, what a wasp-tongued and impatient fool 
Art thou, to break into this woman's mood j 
Tying thine ear to no tongue but thine own ! 

Hot. Why, look you, I am whipped and scourged with 
rods, 
Nettled, and stung with pismires, when I hear 
Of this vile politician, Bolingbroke. . 
In Richard's time,— What do you call the place ? — 
A plague upon 't ! it is in Gloucestershire ; — 
'Twas where the madcap duke his uncle kept; 
His uncle York ; — where I first bowed my knee 
Unto this king of smiles, this Bolingbroke, 
When you and he came back from Ravenspurg. 

North. At Berkeley Castle. 

Hot. You say true : — 
Why, what a candy deal of courtesy 
This fawning greyhound then did proffer me ! 
Look, — " when his infant fortune came to age," 
And, — " gentle Harry Percy, — and, " kind cousin," — 

M 



242 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

O the devil take such cozeners ! — God forgive me ! — 
Good uncle, tell your tale, for I have done. 

Wor. Nay, if you have not, to 't again ; 
We '11 stay your leisure. 

Hot. I have done, in sooth. 

Wor. Then once more to your Scottish prisoners. 
Deliver them up without their ransom straight, 
And make the Douglas' son your only mean 
For powers in Scotland ; which, — for divers reasons, 
Which I shall send you written, — be assured, 
Will easily be granted. — 
When time is ripe, which will be suddenly, 
1 11 steal to Glendower, and Lord Mortimer ; 
Where you and Douglas, and your powers at once 
(As I will fashion it), shall happily meet, 
To bear our fortunes in our own strong arms, 
Which now we hold at much uncertainty. 

North. Farewell, good brother: we shall thrive, I trust. 

Hot. Uncle, adieu : — O let the hours be short, 
'Till fields, and blows, and groans applaud our sport ! 

Shakespere. 



HENRY IV.— Part I. 

Second Selection. 
Enter Hotspur, Worcester, and Douglas. 

Hot. Well said, my noble Scot ; if speaking truth, 
In this fine age, were not thought flattery, 
Such attribution should the Douglas have, 
As not a soldier of this season's stamp 
Should go so general current through the world. 
By heaven, I cannot flatter ; I defy 
The tongues of soothers ; but a braver place, 
In my heart's love hath no man than yourself : 
Nay, task me to my word ; approve me, lord. 

Doug. Thou art the king of honour : 
No man so potent breathes upon the ground, 
But I will beard him. 



SCENES FROM DRAMATIC WRITERS. 243 

Hot. Do so, and 'tis well : — 

Enter a Messenger, with Letters. 

What letters hast thou there ? — I can but thank you. 

Mess. These letters come from your father. 

Hot. Letters from him ! Why comes he not himself ? 

Mess. He cannot come, my lord; he's grievous sick. 

Hot. Zounds ! how has he the leisure to be sick 
In such a justling time? Who leads his power ? 
Under whose government come they along ? 

Mess. His letters bear his mind, not I, my lord. 

Wor. I prithee tell me, doth he keep his bed ? 

Mess. He did, my lord, four days ere I set forth ; 
And at the time of my departure thence, 
He was much feared by his physicians. 

Wor. I would the state of time had first been whole, 
Ere he by sickness had been visited ; 
His health was never better worth than now. 

Hot. Sick now ! droop now ! His sickness doth infect 
The very life-blood of our enterprise; [Aside. 

'Tis catching hither, even to our camp. 
He writes me here, — that inward sickness — 
And that his friends by deputation could not 
So soon be drawn ; nor did he think it meet 
To lay so dangerous and dear a trust 
On any soul removed, but on his own. 
Yet doth he give us bold advertisement,— 
That with our small conjunction we should on, 
To see how fortune is disposed to us ; 
For, as he writes, there is no quailing now ; 
Because the king is certainly possessed 
Of all our purposes. What say you to it ? 
Wor. Your father's sickness is a maim to us. 

Hot. A perilous gash, a very limb lopped off: — 
And yet, in faith, it is not; his present want 
Seems more than we shall find it : — were it good 
To set the exact wealth of all our states 
All at one cast ? To set so rich a main 
On the nice hazard of one doubtful hour ? 

Wor. But yet I would your father had been here, 
The quality and air of our attempt 



244 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Brooks no division : It will be thought 

By some, that know not why he is away, 

That wisdom, loyalty, and mere dislike 

Of our proceedings, kept the earl from hence ; 

This absence of your father draws a curtain, 

That shews the ignorant a kind of fear 

Before not dreamt of. 

Hot, You strain too far. 
I, rather, of his absence make this use : — 
It lends a lustre, and more great opinion, 
A larger dare to your great enterprise, 
Than if the earl were here : for men must think, 
If we, without his help, can make a-head 
To push against the kingdom, with his help 
We shall o'erturn it topsy-turvy down. 
Yet all goes well, yet all our joints are whole. 

Doug. As heart can think : there is not such a word 
Spoke of in Scotland as this term of fear. 

Enter Sir Richard Vernon. 

Hot. My cousin Vernon ! Welcome, by my soul. 

Ver. Pray God, my news be worth a welcome, lord. 
The Earl of Westmoreland, seven thousand strong, 
Is marching hitherwards ; with him, prince John. 

Hot. No harm : What more ? 

Ver. And further, I have learned, 
The king himself in person is set forth, 
Or hitherwards intended speedily, 
With strong and mighty preparation. 

Hot. He shall be welcome too. Where is his son, 
The nimble-footed madcap Prince of Wales, 
And his comrades, that daffed the world aside, 
And bid it pass ? 

Ver. All furnished, all in arms : 
I saw young Harry, with his beaver on, 
His cuisses on his thighs, gallantly armed, 
Rise from the ground like feathered Mercury, 
And vaulted with such ease into his seat 
As if an angel dropped down from the clouds 
To turn and wind a fiery Pegasus, 
And witch the world with noble horsemanship. 



SCENES FROM DRAMATIC WRITERS. 245 

Hot. No more, no more ; worse than the sun in March, 
This praise doth nourish agues. Let them come; 
They come like sacrifices in their trim, 
And to the fire-eyed maid of smoky war, 
All hot, and bleeding, will we offer them : 
The mailed Mars shall on his altar sit, 
Up to the ears in blood. I am on fire, 
To hear this rich reprisal is so nigh, 
And yet not ours : — Come, let me take my horse, 
Who is to bear me, like a thunderbolt 
Against the bosom of the Prince of Wales : 
Harry to Harry, shall hot horse to horse 
Meet, and ne'er part, till one drop down a corse ! 
But I profess not talking ; only this, — 
Let each man do his best: and here I draw a sword, 
Whose worthy temper I intend to stain 
With the best blood that I can meet withal, 
In the adventure of this perilous day. 
Now, — Esperance ! — Percy ! — and set on. 

Shakespere. 



ION. 

(By hind permission of Edward Moxon, Esq.) 
Adrastus, the King, a soldier enters. 

Soldier. My liege, forgive me — 

Adras. Well ! Speak out at once 
Thy business, and retire. 

Soldier. I have no part 
In the presumptuous message that I bear. 

Adras. Tell it, or go. There is no time to waste 
On idle terrors. 

Soldier. Thus it is, my lord : 
As we were burnishing our arms, a man 
Entered the court, and when we saw him first 
Was tending towards the palace ; in amaze, 
We hailed the rash intruder '; still he walked 
Unheeding onward, till the western gate 
Barred further course ; then turning, he besought 
Our startled band to herald him to thee, 



246 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

That he might urge a message which the sages 
Had charged him to deliver. 

Adras. Ah! the grey -beards 
Who 'mid the altars of the gods, conspire 
To cast the image of supernal power 
From earth its shadow consecrates. What sage 
Is so resolved to play the orator 
That he would die for 't ? 

Soldier. He is but a youth, 
Yet urged his prayer with a sad constancy 
Which could not be denied. 

Adras. Most bravely planned ! 
Sedition worthy of the reverend host 
Of sophist traitors ; — 
'Tis fit, when burning to insult their king, 
And warned the pleasure must be bought with life, 
Their valour send a boy to speak their wisdom ! 
Thou knowst my last decree ; tell this rash youth 
The danger he incurs ; — then let him pass, 
And own the king more gracious than his masters. 

Soldier. We have already told him of the fate 
Which waits his daring ; courteously he thanked us, 
But still with solemn accent urged his suit. 

Adras. Tell him once more, if he persists he dies — 
Then, if he will, admit him. Should he hold 
His purpose, order Crythes to conduct hiin, 
And see the headsman instantly prepare 
To do his office. [Exit Soldier. 

So resolved, so young — 

'Twere pity he should fall ; — but he is warned ; 
And if he cross yon threshold he shall die. 

Enter Crythes and Ion. 

Cry. The king ! 

Adras. Stranger, I bid thee welcome ; 
We are about to tread the same dark passage, 
Thou almost on the instant. — Is the sword [To Crythes 
Of justice sharpened, and the headsman ready ? 

Cry. Thou mayst behold them plainly in the court ; 
Even now the solemn soldiers line the ground, 
The steel gleams on the altar, and the slave 



SCENES FROM DRAMATIC WRITERS. 247 

Disrobes himself for duty. 

Adras. \_To Ion] Dost thou see them ! 

Ion. I do. 

Adras. By heaven, he does not change ! 
If even now, thou wilt depart and leave 
Thy trait' rous thoughts unspoken, thou art free. 

Ion. I thank thee for thy offer ; but I stand 
Before thee for the lives of thousands, rich 
In all that makes life precious to the brave ; 
Who perish not alone, but in their fall 
Break the far- spreading tendrils that they feed, 
And leave them nurtureless. If thou wilt hear me 
For them, I am content to speak no more. 

Adras. Thou hast thy wish then. Crythes ! till yon dial 
Cast its thin shadow on the approaching hour, 
I hear this gallant traitor. On the instant, 
Come without word, and lead him to his doom. 
JNow leave us. 

Cry. What, alone ? 

Adras. Yes, slave, alone, 
He is no assassin ! [Exit Crythes. 

Tell me who thou art. 

What generous source owns that heroic blood, 
Which holds its course thus bravely ? What great wars 
Have nursed the courage that can look on death, 
Certain and speedy death, with placid eye ? 

Ion. I am a simple youth who never bore 
The weight of armour, — one who may not boast 
Of noble birth or valour of his own. 
Deem not the powers which nerve me thus to speak 
In thy great presence, and have made my heart 
Upon the verge of bloody death as calm, 
As equal in its beatings, as when sleep 
Approached me nestling from the sportive toils 
Of thoughtless childhood, and celestial forms 
Began to glimmer through the deepening shadows 
Of soft oblivion to belong to me ! — 
These are the strengths of heaven ? to thee they speak, 
Bid thee to hearken to thy people's cry, 
Or warn thee that thy hour must shortly come ! 

Adras. I know it must ; so mayst thou spare thy 
warnings. 



248 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

My youth was blasted ; — parents, brother, kin — 
All that should people infancy with joy — 
Conspired to poison mine ; despoiled my life 
Of innocence and hope — all but the sword 
And sceptre — dost thou wonder at me now ? 

Ion. I knew that we should pity — 

Adras. Pity! dare 
To speak that word again, and torture waits thee 1 
I am yet king of Argos. Well, go on — 
Thy time is short, and I am pledged to hear. 

Ion. If thou hast ever loved — 

Adras. Beware ! Beware ! 

Ion. Thou bast ! I see thou hast ! Thou art not marble, 
And thou shalt hear me ! — Think upon the time 
When the clear depths of thy yet lucid soul 
Were ruffled with the troublings of strange joy, 
As if some unseen visitant from heaven 
Touched the calm lake and wreathed its images 
In sparkling waves ; — recall the dallying hope 
That on the margin of assurance trembled, 
As loth to lose in certainty too blest 
Its happy being ; — taste in thought again 
Of the stolen sweetness of those evening walks, 
When pansied turf was air to winged feet, 
And circling forests, by ethereal touch 
Enchanted, wore the livery of the sky, 
As if about to melt in golden light 
Shapes of one heavenly vision ; and thy heart, 
Enlarged by its new sympathy with one, 
Grew bountiful to all ! 

Adras. That tone ! That tone ! 
Whence came it ? from thy lips ? It cannot be — 
The long-hushed music of the only voice 
That ever spoke unbought affection to me, 
And waked my soul to blessing ! 
Stranger thou dost enforce me 
To speak of things unbreathed by lips of mine 
To human ear : — wilt listen ? 

Ion. As a child. 

Adras. Again ! — that voice again ! — thou hast seen me 
moved 



SCENES PROM DRAMATIC WRITERS. 249 

As never mortal saw me, by a tone 

Which some light breeze, enamoured of the sound, 

Hath wafted through the woods, till thy young voice 

Caught it to rive and melt me. At my birth 

This city, which, expectant of its prince, 

Lay hushed, broke out in clamorous ecstasies ; 

Yet, in that moment, while the uplifted cups 

Foamed with the choicest product of the sun, 

And welcome thundered from a thousand throats, 

My doom was sealed. From the hearth's vacant space, 

In the dark chamber where my mother lay, 

Came forth, in heart-appalling tone, these words 

Of me the nurseling — " Woe unto the babe ; 

" Against the life which now begins shall life, 

" Lighted from thence, be armed, and, both soon quenched, 

" End this great line in sorrow !" — Ere I grew 

Of years to know myself a thing accurst, 

A second son was born, to steal the love 

Which fate had else scarce rifled ; he became 

My parents' hope, the darling of the crew, 

Who lived upon their smiles, and thought it flattery 

To trace in every foible of my youth — 

A prince's youth ! — the workings of the curse ; 

My very mother — Jove ! I cannot bear 

To speak it now — looked freezingly upon me ! 

Ion. But thy brother — 

Adras. Died. Thou hast heard the lie, 
The common lie that every peasant tells 
Of me his master, — that I slew the boy. 
'Tis false ! One summer's eve, below a crag 
Which, in his wilful mood, he strove to climb, 
He lay a mangled corpse: the very slaves, 
Whose cruelty had shut him from my heart, 
Now coined their own injustice into proofs 
To brand me as his murderer. 

Ion. Did they dare 
Accuse thee ? 

Adras. Not in open speech : — they felt 
I should have seized the miscreant by the throat, 
And crushed the he half spoken with the life 
Of the base speaker : — but the tale looked out 
m 5 



250 , THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

From the stolen gaze of coward eyes, which shrank 
When mine have met them ; murmur'd through the crowd 
That at the sacrifice, or feast, or game, 
Stood distant from me ; burnt into my soul 
When 1 beheld it in my father's shudder ! 

Ion. Didst not declare thy innocence ? 

Adras. To whom ? 
To parents who could doubt me ? 
No ! Though my heart had burst 
As it was nigh to bursting ! — To the mountains 
I fled, and on their pinnacles of snow 
Breasted the icy wind, in hope to cool 
My spirit's fever — struggled with the oak 
In search of weariness, and learned to rive 
Its* stubborn boughs, till limbs once lightly strung 
Might mate in cordage with its infant stems ; 
Or on the sea-beat rock tore off the vest 
Which burnt upon my bosom, and to air 
Headlong committed, clove the water's depth 
Which plummet never sounded; — but in vain, 

Ion. Yet succour came to thee ? 

Adras. A blessed one ! 
Which the strange magic of thy voice revives, 
And thus unlocks my soul. My rapid steps 
Were in a wood-encircled valley stayed 
By the bright vision of a maid, whose face 
Most lovely, more than loveliness revealed 
In touch of patient grief, which dearer seemed 
Than happiness to spirit seared like mine. 
With feeble hands she strove to lay in earth 
The body of her aged sire, whose death 
Left her alone. I aided her sad work, 
And soon two lonely ones by holy rites • 
Became one happy being. Days, weeks, months, 
In streamlike unity flowed silent by us 
In our delightful nest. My father's spies — 
Slaves, whom my nod should have consigned to stripes 
Or the swift falchion — tracked our sylvan home 
Just as my bosom knew its second joy, 
And, spite of fortune, I embraced a son. 

Ion. Urged by thy trembling parents to avert 
That dreadful prophecy ? 



SCENES PROM DRAMATIC WRITERS. 251 

Adras. Fools ! did they deem 
Its worst accomplishment could match the ill 
Which they wrought on me ? It had left unharmed 
A thousand ecstasies of passioned years, 
Which, tasted once, live ever, and disdain 
Fate's iron grapple ! Could I now behold 
That son with knife uplifted at my heart, 
A moment ere my life-blood followed it, 
I would embrace him with my dying eyes, 
And pardon destiny ! While jocund smiles 
Wreathed on the infant's face, as if sweet spirits 
Suggested pleasant fancies to its soul, 
The ruffians broke upon us ; seized the child ; 
Dashed through the thicket to the beetling rock 
'Neath which the deep sea eddies ; I stood still 
As stricken into stone : I heard him cry, 
Pressed by the rudeness of the murderer's gripe, 
Severer ill unfearing — then the splash 
Of waters that shall cover him for ever ; 
And could not stir to save him ! 

Ion. And the mother — 

Adras. She spake no word, but clasped me in her arms, 
And lay her down to die. A lingering gaze 
Of love she fixed on me — none other loved, 
And so passed hence. By Jupiter, her look ! 
Her dying patience glimmers in thy face ! 
She lives again ! she looks upon me now ! 
There 's magic in 't. Bear with me — I am childish. 

Enter Crythes and Guards. 

Adras. Why art thou here ? 

Cry. The dial points the hour. 

Adras. Dost thou not see that horrid purpose passed ? 
Hast thou no heart — no sense ? 

Cry. Scarce half an hour 
Hath flown since the command on which I wait. 

Adras. Scarce half an hour ! — years — years have rolled 
since then. 
Begone, remove that pageantry of death — 
It blasts my sight — and hearken ! Touch a hair 
Of this brave youth, or look on him as now — 



252 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

With thy cold headsman's eye, and yonder band 
Shall not expect a fearful show in vain. 
Hence ! without a word. [Exit Crythes. 

What would'st thou have me do ? 

Ion. Let thy awakened heart speak its own language ; 
Convene thy sages ; — frankly, nobly meet them; 
Explore with them the pleasure of the gods, 
And, whatsoe'er the sacrifice, perform it. 

Adras. Well ! I will seek their presence in an hour ; 
Go summon them, young hero : hold ! no word 
Of the strange passion thou hast witnessed here. 

Ion. Distrust me not. — Benignant Powers, I thank ye ! 

Talfourd. 



JULIUS OESAR. 

First Selection. 
Enter Casca and Cassius. 

Cas. Who's there ? 

Casca.. A Roman. 

Cas. Casca, by your voice. 

Casca. Your ear is good. Cassius, what night is this ? 

Cas. A very pleasant night to honest men. 

Casca. Who ever knew the heavens menace so ? 

Cas. Those that have known the earth so full of faults. 
For my part, I have walked about the streets, 
Submitting me unto the perilous night ; 
And, thus unbraced, Casca, as you see, 
Have bared my bosom to the thunder stone : 
And when the cross-blue lightning seemed to open 
The breast of heaven, I did present myself, 
Even in the aim and very flash of it. 

Casca. But wherefore did you so much tempt the 
heavens ? 
It is the part of men to fear and tremble, 
When the most mighty gods, by tokens send 
Such dreadful heralds to astonish us. 

Cas. You are dull, Casca ; and those sparks of life 



SCENES FROM DRAMATIC WRITERS. 253 

That should be in a Roman, you do want, 

Or else you use not : you look pale, and gaze, 

And put on fear, and cast yourself in wonder, 

To see the strange impatience of the heavens : 

But if you would consider the true cause 

"Why all these fires, why all these gliding ghosts, 

Why birds and beasts, from quality and kind ; 

"Why old men, fools, and children calculate ; 

"Why all these things change from their ordinance, 

Their natures, and pre-formed faculties, 

To monstrous quality, — why, you shall find, 

That heaven hath infused them with these spirits, 

To make them instruments of fear and warning 

Unto some monstrous state. 

Now, could I, Casca, name to thee a man 

Most like this dreadful night ; 

That thunders, lightens, opens graves, and roars 

As doth the Hon in the capitol : 

A man no mightier than thyself, or me, 

In personal action ; yet prodigious grown, 

And fearful, as these strange eruptions are. 

Casca. 'Tis Caesar that you mean: Is it not, Cassius ? 

Cas. Let it be who it is : for Romans now 
Have thewes and limbs like to their ancestors, 
But, woe the while ! our fathers' minds are dead, 
And we are governed with our mothers' spirits ; 
Our yoke and sufferance show us womanish. 

Casca. Indeed, they say the senators to-morrow 
Mean to establish Caesar as a king : 
And he shall wear his crown by sea and land, 
In every place, save here in Italy. 

Cas. I know where I will wear this dagger then ; 
Cassius from bondage will deliver Cassius : 
Therein, ye gods, you make the weak most strong ; 
Therein, ye gods, you tyrants do defeat : 
Nor stony tower, nor walls of beaten brass, 
Nor airless dungeon, nor strong links of iron, 
Can be retentive to the strength of spirit : 
But life, being weary of these worldly bars, 
Never lacks power to dismiss itself. 



254 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

If I know this, know all the world besides, 
That part of tyranny that I do bear, 
I can shake off at pleasure. 

Casca. So can I : 
So every bondman in his own hand bears 
The power to cancel his captivity. 

Cas. And why should Csesar be a tyrant then ? 
Poor man ! I know he would not be a wolf, 
But that he sees the Romans are but sheep: 
He were no lion, were not Romans hinds, 
Those that with haste will make a mighty fire 
Begin it with weak straws : What trash is Rome, 
What rubbish, and what offal, when it serves 
For the base matter to illuminate 
So vile a thing as Caesar ! But, O, grief ! 
Where hast thou led me ? I, perhaps, speak this 
Before a willing bondman : then I know 
My answer must be made : but I am armed, 
And dangers are to me indifferent. 

Casca. You speak to Casca : and to such a man 
That is no fleering tell-tale. Hold my hand : 
Be factious for redress of all these griefs ; 
And I will set this foot of mine as far 
As who goes farthest. 

Cas. There's a bargain made. 
Now, know you, Casca, I have moved already 
Some certain of the noblest-minded Romans, 
To undergo with me an enterprise 
Of honourable dangerous consequence ; 
And I do know by this they stay for me 
In Pompey's porch : for now, this fearful night, 
There is no stir or walking in the streets ; 
And the complexion of the element 
In favour's, like the work we have in hand, 
Most bloody, fiery, and most terrible. 

Enter Cinna. 

Casca. Stand close awhile, for here comes one in haste. 
Cas. 'Tis Cinna, I do know him by his gait ; 
He is a friend. — Cinna, where haste you so ? 



SCENES FROM DRAMATIC WRITERS. 255 

Cin. To find out you: Who's that, Metellus Cimber ? 

Cas. No, it is Casca ; one incorporate 
To our attempts. Am I not staid for, Cinna ? 

Cin. I am glad on't. What a fearful night is this ! 
There's two or three of us have seen strange sights. 

Cas. Am I not staid for? Tell me. 

Cin. Yes, you are. 
O Cassius, if you could but win the noble Brutus 
To our party. 

Cas. Be you content : good Cinna, take this paper, 
And look you, lay it in the prsetor's chair, 
Where Brutus may but find it ; and throw this 
In at his window : set this up with wax 
Upon old Brutus' statue : all this done, 
Repair to Pompey's pOrch, where you shall find us. 
Are Decius Brutus and Trebonius there ? 

Cin. All, but Metellus Cimber ; and he's gone 
To seek you at your house. Well, I will hie, 
And so bestow these papers as you bade me. 

Cas. That done, repair to Pompey's theatre. 

\Exit Cinna. 
Come Casca, you and I will yet, ere day, 
See Brutus at his house : three parts of him 
Is ours already ; and the man entire, 
Upon the next encounter, yields him ours. 

Casca. O he sits high in all the people's hearts : 
And that which would appear offence in us, 
His countenance, like richest alchymy, 
Will change to virtue and to worthiness. 

Cas. Him, and his worth, and our great need of him, 
You have right well conceited. Let us go, 
For it is after midnight ; and ere day 
We will awake him, and be sure of him . 

Shakespere. 



256 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

JULIUS CAESAR. 

Second Selection. 

Brutus and Lucius. 

Luc. Sir, 'tis your brother Cassius at the door, 
Who doth desire to see you. 
. Bru. Is he alone ? 

Luc. No, Sir, there are more with him. 

Bru. Do you know them ? 

Luc. No, Sir; their hats are plucked about their ears, 
That by no means I may discover them 
By any mark of favour. 

Bru. Let them enter. [Exit Lucius. 

They are the faction. O conspiracy ! 
Sham'st thou to show thy dangerous brow by night, 
When evils are most free ? O, then, by day 
Where wilt thou find a cavern dark enough 
To mask thy monstrous visage ? Seek none, conspiracy ; 
Hide it in smiles and affability : 
For if thou path thy native semblance on, 
Not Erebus itself were dim enough 
To hide thee from prevention. 

Enter Cassius, Casca, Decius, Cinna, Metellus 
Cimber, and Trebonius. 

Cas. I think we are too bold upon your rest : 
Good morrow, Brutus. Do we trouble you ? 

Bru. I have been up this hour ; awake all night. 
Know I these men that come along with you ? 

Cas. Yes, every man of them ; and no man here 
But honours you : and every one doth wish 
You had but that opinion of yourself 
Which every noble Roman bears of you. 

Bru. Give me your hands all over, one by one. 

Cas. And let us swear our resolution. 

Bru. No, not an oath : If not the face of men, 
The sufferance of our souls, the time's abuse,— 
If these be motives weak, break off betimes, 
And every man hence to his idle bed ; 
So let high- sighted tyranny range on, 



SCENES FROM DRAMATIC WRITERS. 257 

Till each man drop by lottery. But if these, 

As I am sure they do, bear fire enough 

To kindle cowards, and to steel with valour 

The melting spirits of women ; then, countrymen, 

What need we any spur, but our own cause, 

To prick us to redress ? — But do not stain 

The even virtue of our enterprise, 

Nor the insuppressive mettle of our spirits, 

To think that, or our cause, or our performance, 

Did need an oath ; when every drop of blood 

That every Roman bears, and nobly bears, 

Is guilty of a several bastardy, 

If he do break the smallest particle 

Of any promise that hath passed from him. 

Cas. But what of Cicero ? Shall we sound him ? 
I think, he will stand very strong with us. 

Casca. Let us not leave him out. 

Cin. No, by no means. 

Met. O let us have him ; for his silver hairs 
Will purchase us a good opinion, 
And buy men's voices to commend our deeds ; 
It shall be said his judgment ruled our hands ; 
Our youths, and wildness, shall no whit appear, 
But all be buried in his gravity. 

Bru. O name him not ; let us not break with him; 
For he will never follow anything 
That other men begin. 

Cas. Then leave him out. 

Casca. Indeed he is not fit. 

Dec. Shall no man else be touched but only Caesar ? 

Cas. Decius, well urged : — I think it is not meet 
Mark Antony, so well beloved of Caesar, 
Should outlive Caesar : We shall find of him 
A shrewd contriver; and you know his means, 
If he improve them, may well stretch so far 
As to annoy us all : which to prevent, 
Let Antony and Caesar fall together. 

Bru. Our course will seem too bloody, Caius Cassius, 
To cut the head off, and then hack the limbs ; 
Like wrath in death, and envy afterwards: 
For Antony is but a limb of Caesar. 



258 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Let us be sacrificers, but not butchers, Caius. 
We all stand up against the spirit of Caesar ; 
And in the spirit of men there is no blood : 

that we then could come by Caesar's spirit, 
And not dismember Caesar ! But, alas, 
Caesar must bleed for it ! And, gentle friends, 
Let's kill him boldly, but not wrathfully ; 
Let's carve him as a dish fit for the gods, 
Not hew him as a carcase fit for hounds : 
And let our hearts, as subtle masters do, 

Stir up their servants to an act of rage, 
And after seem to chide them. This shall make 
Our purpose necessary, and not envious : 
Which so appearing to the common eyes, 
We shall be called purgers, not murderers. 
And for Mark Antony, think not of him ; 
For he can do no more than Caesar's arm, 
When Caesar's head is off. 

Cas. Yet I fear him : 
For in the ingrafted love he bears to Csesar, — 

Bru. Alas, good Cassius, do not think of him : 
If he love Caesar, all that he can do 
Is to himself, — take thought, and die for Caesar : 
And that were much he should ; for he is given 
To sports, to wildness, and much company. 

Treb. There is no fear in him; let him not die; 
For he will live and laugh at this hereafter. 
'Tis time to part. 

Cas. But it is doubtful yet 
Whether Caesar will come forth to-day, or no. 

Dec. Never fear that : If he be so resolved, 

1 can o'ersway him. 

Cas. Nay, we will all of us be there to fetch him. 

Bru. By the eighth hour : Is that the uttermost ? 

Cin. Be that the uttermost, and fail not then. 

Met. Caius Ligarius doth bear Caesar hard, 
Who rated him for speaking well of Pompey ; 
I wonder none of you have thought of him. 

Bru. Now, good Metellus, go along by him ; 
He loves me well, and I have given him reasons ; 
Send him but hither, and I '11 fashion him. 



SCENES FROM DRAMATIC WRITERS. 259 

Cas. The morning comes upon us : We '11 leave you, 
Brutus : — 
And, friends, disperse yourselves : but all remember 
What you have said, and show yourselves true Romans. 

Bru. Good gentlemen, look fresh and merrily ; 
Let not our looks put on our purposes ; 
But bear it, as our Roman actors do, 
With untired spirits and formal constancy : 
And so, good morrow to you every one. 

Shakespere. 



JULIUS CLESAR. 

Third Selection. 
Brutus and Citizens. 

Cit. The noble Brutus is ascended : silence ! 

Bru. Be patient till the last. 
Romans, countrymen, and lovers, hear me for my cause ; 
and be silent, that you may hear: believe me for mine 
honour, and have respect to mine honour, that you may 
believe ; censure me in your wisdom ; and awake your 
senses, that you may the better judge. If there be any in 
this assembly, any dear friend of Caesar's, to him I say, 
that Brutus' love to Csesar was no less than his. If then 
that friend demand why Brutus rose against Csesar, this is 
my answer — Not that I loved Csesar less, but that I loved 
Rome more. Had you rather Csesar were living, and die 
all slaves ; than that Csesar were dead, to live all free 
men ? As Csesar loved me, I weep for him ; as he was 
fortunate, I rejoice at it ; as he was valiant, I honour him : 
but, as he was ambitious, I slew him. There is tears, for 
his love; joy, for his fortune; honour, for his valour; 
and death, for his ambition. Who is here so base that 
would be a bondman ? If any, speak ; for him have I 
offended. Who is here so rude that would not be a Roman ? 
If any, speak ; for him have I offended. Who is here so 
vile that will not love his country ? If any, speak ; for him 
have I offended. I pause for a reply. 

Cits. None, Brutus, none. {Several speaking at once). 

Bru. Then none have I offended. I have done no more 



260 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

to Caesar than you shall do to Brutus. The question of his 
death is enrolled in the Capitol : his glory not extenuated, 
wherein he was worthy; nor his offences enforced, for 
which he suffered death. 

Enter Antony and others. 

Here comes his body, mourned by Mark Antony: who, 
though he had no hand in his death, shall receive the 
benefit of his dying, a place in the commonwealth : as which 
of you shall not ? With this I depart ; That, as I slew my 
best lover for the good of Rome, I have the same dagger 
for myself, when it shall please my country to need my 
death. 

Git. Live, Brutus, live ! live ! 

1 Git. Bring him with triumph home unto his house. 

2 Git. Give him a statue with his ancestors. 

3 Git. Let him be Caesar. 
Bru. My countrymen, — 

2 Git. Peace ; silence ! Brutus speaks. 
1 Git. Peace, ho ! 

Bru. Good countrymen, let me depart alone, 
And, for my sake, stay here with Antony: 
Do grace to Caesar's corpse, and grace his speech 
Tending to Caesar's glories ; which, Mark Antony, 
By our permission, is allowed to make. 
I do entreat you, not a man depart, 
Save I alone, till Antony have spoke. [Exit. 

1 Git. Stay, ho ! let us hear Mark Antony. 

Ant. For Brutus' sake, I am beholden to you. 

4 Git. What does he say of Brutus ? 

3 Git. He says, for Brutus' sake, 
He finds himself beholden to us all. 

4 Git. 'Twere best he speak no harm of Brutus here. 

1 Git. This Caesar was a tyrant. 
3 Git. Nay, that's certain : 

We are blessed that Rome is rid of him. 

2 Git. Peace ; let us hear what Antony can say. 
Ant. You gentle Romans, — 

Git. Peace, ho ! let us hear him. 

Ant. Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears ; 
I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him. 



SCENES FROM DRAMATIC WRITERS. 261 

The evil that men do lives after them ; 

The good is oft interred with their bones ; 

So let it be with Caesar. The noble Brutus 

Hath told you Caesar was ambitious : 

If it were so, it was a grievous fault ; 

And grievously hath Caesar answered it. 

Here, under leave of Brutus, and the rest, 

(For Brutus is an honourable man ; 

So are they all, all honourable men) ; 

Come I to speak in Caesar's funeral. 

He was my friend, faithful and just to me : 

But Brutus says he was ambitious ; 

And Brutus is an honourable man. 

He hath brought many captives home to Rome, 

Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill : 

Did this in Caesar seem ambitious ? 

When that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept : 

Ambition should be made of sterner stuff : 

Yet Brutus says he was ambitious ; 

And Brutus is an honourable man. 

You all did see that on the Lupercal 

I thrice presented him a kingly crown, 

Which he did thrice refuse. Was this ambition ? 

Yet Brutus says, he was ambitious ; 

And, sure, he is an honourable man. 

I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke, 

But here I am to speak what I do know. 

You all did love him once, not without cause ; 

What cause withholds you then to mourn for him ? 

O judgment, thou art fled to brutish beasts, 

And men have lost their reason ! — Bear with me ; 

My heart is in the coffin there with Caesar, 

And I must pause till it come back to me. 

1 Cit. Methinks there is much reason in his sayings. 

2 Cit. If thou consider rightly of the matter, 
Caesar has had great wrong. 

4 Cit. Marked ye his wcrds ? He would not take the 
crown ; 
Therefore, 'tis certain he was not ambitious. 

2 Cit. Poor soul ! his eyes are red as fire with weepiDg. 



262 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

3 Cit. There's not a nobler man in Rome than Antony. 

4 Cit. Now mark him, he begins again to speak. 
Ant. But yesterday, the word of Caesar might 

Have stood against the world : now lies he there, 
And none so poor to do him reverence. 

masters ! if I were disposed to stir 
Your hearts and minds to mutiny and rage, 

1 should do Brutus wrong, and Cassius wrong, 
Who, you all know, are honourable men ; 

I will not do them wrong ; I rather choose 

To wrong the dead, to wrong myself, and you, 

Than I will wrong such honourable men. 

But here's a parchment, with the seal of Caesar, 

I found it in his closet, 'tis his will : 

Let but the commons hear this testament, 

(Which, pardon me, I do not mean to read), 

And they would go and kiss dead Caesar's wounds, 

And dip their napkins in his sacred blood ; 

Yea, beg a hair of him for memory, 

And, dying, mention it within their wills, 

Bequeathing it, as a rich legacy, 

Unto their issue. 

4 Cit. We'll hear the will : Read it, Mark Antony. 

Cits. The will ! the will ! we will hear Caesar's will. 

Ant. Have patience, gentle friends, I must not read it ; 
It is not meet you know how Caesar loved you. 
You are not wood, you are not stones, but men ; 
And, being men, hearing the will of Caesar, 
It will inflame you, it will make you mad: 
'Tis good you know not that you are his heirs ; 
For if you should, O, what would come of it ! 

4 Cit. Read the will ; we'll hear it Antony ; 
You shall read us the will ; Caesar's will. 

Ant. Will you be patient ? Will you stay awhile ? 
I have o'ershot myself to tell you of it. 
I fear I wrong the honourable men 
Whose daggers have stabbed Caesar : I do fear it. 

4 Cit. They were traitors : Honourable men ! 

Cits. The will ! the testament ! 

2 .Cit. They were villains, murderers : The will ! read 
the will ! 



SCENES FROM DRAMATIC WRITERS. 253 

Ant. You will compel me then to read the will ? 
Then make a ring about the corpse of Caesar, 

Cits. Stand back ! room ! bear back ! 

Ant. If you have tears prepare to shed them now. 
You all do know this mantle : I remember 
The first time ever Caesar put it on ; 
'Twas on a summer's evening, in his tent ; 
That day he overcame the Nervii ; — 
Look ! in this place ran Cassius' dagger through ; 
See, what a rent the envious Casca made : 
Through this, the well-beloved Brutus stabbed ; 
And, as he plucked his cursed steel away, 
Mark how the blood of Caesar followed it, 
As rushing out of doors, to be resolved 
If Brutus so unkindly knocked, or no ; 
For Brutus, as you know, was Caesar's angel : 
Judge, O you gods, how dearly Caesar loved him ! 
This was the most unkindest cut of all: 
For when the noble Caesar saw him stab, 
Ingratitude, more strong than traitors' arms, 
Quite vanquished him: then burst his mighty heart; 
And, in his mantle, muffling up his face, 
Even at the base of Pompey's statue, 
Which all the while ran blood, great Caesar fell. 
O, what a fall was there, my countrymen ! 
Then I, and you, and all of us fell down, 
Whilst bloody treason flourished over us. 
O, now you weep ; and I perceive you feel 
The dint of pity : these are gracious drops , 
Kind souls, what weep you, when you but behold 
Our Caesar's vesture wounded ? Look you here, 
Here is himself, marred, as you see, with traitors. [Points 

1 Cit. O piteous spectacle ! behind. 

2 Cit. O noble Caesar. 

3 Cit. O woful day ! 

4 Cit. O traitors, villains ! 

2 Cit. We will be revenged : revenge ; about — seek — 
burn — fire — kill — slay ! — let not a traitor live. 
Ant. Stay, countrymen. 
Cit. Peace there ; — Hear the noble Antony. 
Cits. We'll hear him, we'll follow him, we'll die with him. 



264 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Ant. Good friends, sweet friends, let me not stir you up 
To such a sudden flood of mutiny. 
They that have done this deed are honourable ; 
What private griefs they have, alas, I know not, 
That made them do it ; they are wise and honourable, 
And will, no doubt, with reasons answer you. 
I come not friends, to steal away your hearts ; 
I am no orator, as Brutus is ; 
But as you know me all, a plain blunt man, 
That love my friend ; and that they know full well 
That gave me public leave to speak of him. 
For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth, 
Action, nor utterance, nor power of speech, 
To stir men's blood : I only speak right on ; 
I tell you that which you yourselves do know ; 
Show you sweet Caesar's wounds, poor, poor dumb mouths, 
And bid them speak for me. But were I Brutus, 
And Brutus Antony, there were an Antony 
Would ruffle up your spirits, and put a tongue 
In every wound of Caesar, that should move 
The stones of Rome to rise and mutiny. 

Cit. We'll mutiny! 

1 Cit. We'll burn the house of Brutus ! 

3 Cit. Away then ; come, seek the conspirators. 

Ant. Yet hear me, countrymen; yet hear me speak. 

1 Cit. Peace, ho ! Hear Antony, most noble Antony. 
Ant. Why, friends, you go to do you know not what. 

Wherein hath Caesar thus deserved your loves ? 
Alas, you know not — I must tell you then : — 
You have forgot the will I told you of. 

2 Cit. Most true ; the will : — let 's stay, and hear the 

will. 
Ant. Here is the will, and under Caesar's seal. 
To every Roman citizen he gives, 
To every several man, seventy-five drachmas. 

2 Cit. Most noble Caesar ! — we'll revenge his death. 

3 Cit. O Royal Caesar ! 
Ant. Hear me with patience. 
Cit. Peace, ho ! 

Ant. Moreover, he hath left you all his walks, 
His private arbours, and new planted orchards, 



SCENES FROM DRAMATIC WRITERS. 265 

On this side Tiber ; he hath left them you, 
And to your heirs for ever ; common pleasures. 
To walk abroad and recreate yourselves. 
Here was a Caesar ! When comes such another ? 

1 Cit. Never, never ! — Come, away, away! 
We'll burn his body in the holy place, 

And with the brands., fire the traitors' houses. 
Take up the body. 

2 Cit. Go, fetch fire. 

3 Cit. Pluck down benches. 

3 Cit. Pluck down forms, windows, anything. 

[All rush off~\. Shakespere. 



MARINO FALIERO. 

Marino Faliero, Doge ; and his Nephew, 
Bertuccio Faliero. 

Ber. F. It cannot be but they will do you justice. 

Doge. Ay, such as the Avogadori did, 
Who sent up my appeal unto the Forty, 
To try him by his peers, his own tribunal. 

Ber. F . His peers will scarce protect him : such an act 
Would bring contempt on all authority. 

Doge. Know you not Venice ? Know you not the 
Forty ? 
But we shall see anon. 

Ber. F. [addressing Yincenzo, then entering, .] How now — 

what tidings \ 
Vine. I am charged to tell his highness, that the court 
Has passed its resolution; and that, soon 
As the due forms of judgment are gone through, 
The sentence will be sent up to the Doge ; 
In the meantime, the Forty doth salute 
The Prince of the Republic, and entreat 
His acceptation of their duty. 

Doge. Yes ; 
They are wondrous dutiful, and ever humble. 
Sentence is passed, you say ? 
Vine. It is, your highness : 
The president was sealing it when I 

N 



266 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Was called in, that no moment might be lost 
In forwarding the intimation due, 
Not only to the Chief of the Republic, 
But the complainant, both in one united. 

Ber. F. Are you aware, from aught you have perceived, 
Of their decision ? 

Vine. No, my lord ; you know 
The secret custom of the courts in Venice. 

Enter the Secretary of the Forty. 

Sec. The high tribunal of the Forty sends 
Health and respect to the Doge Faliero, 
Chief magistrate of Venice, and requests 
His highness to peruse and to approve 
The sentence passed on Michel Steno, born 
Patrician, and arraigned upon the charge 
Contained, together with its penalty, 
Within the rescript which I now present. 

Doge. Retire and wait without. 

[Exeunt Secretary and Vincenzo. 
Take thou this paper : 
The misty letters vanish from my eyes : 
I cannot fix them. 

Ber. F. Patience, my dear uncle ; 
Why do you tremble thus ? — nay, doubt not, all 
Will be as could be wished. 

Doge. Say on. 

Ber. F. [reading. .] " Decreed 
In council, without one dissenting voice, 
That Michel Steno, by his own confession, 
Guilty, on the last night of Carnival, 
Of having graven on the ducal throne 
The following words : — " 

Doge. Wouldst thou repeat them ? 
Wouldst thou repeat them — thou, a Faliero, 
Harp on the deep dishonour of our house, 
Dishonoured in its chief — that chief the Prince 
Of Venice, first of cities ? — To the sentence. 

Ber. F. Forgive me, my good lord ; I will obey — 
[reads, ,] " That Michel Steno be detained a month 
In close arrest." 



SCENES FROM DRAMATIC WRITERS. 267 

Doge. Proceed. 

Ber. F. My lord, 'tis finished. 

Doge. How say you so ? — finished ! Do I dream ? — 'tis 
false — 
Give me the paper — [snatches the paper, and reads 

" 'Tis decreed in council, 
That Michel Steno " — Nephew, thine arm ! 

Ber. F. Nay; 
Cheer up, be calm ; this transport is uncalled for — 
Let me seek some assistance. 

Doge. Stop, sir — stir not — 
'Tis past. 

Ber. F. I cannot but agree with you — 
The sentence is too slight for the offence. 
It is not honourable in the Forty 
To affix so slight a penalty to that 
Which was a foul affront to you, and even 
To them, as being your subjects; but 'tis not 
Yet without remedy : you can appeal 
To them once more, or to the Avogadori, 
Who, seeing that true justice is withheld, 
Will now take up the cause they once declined, 
And do you right upon the bold delinquent. 
Think you not thus, good uncle ? Why do you stand 
So fixed ? You heed me not ; — I pray you, hear me ! 

Doge. Away ! 
O that the Genoese were in the port ! 
O that the Huns, whom I o'erthrew at Zara, 
Were ranged around the palace ! 

Ber. F. 'Tis not well 
In Venice, Duke, to say so. 

Doge. Venice ! Duke ! 
Who now is Duke in Venice ? Let me see him, 
That he may do me right. 

Ber. F. If you forget 
Your office, and its dignity and duty, 
Remember that of man, and curb this passion* 
The Duke of Venice— 

Doge, [interrupting him.'] There is no such thing — 
It is a word — nay, worse — a worthless by-word : 
The most despised, wronged, outraged, helpless wretch, 



268 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Who begs his bread, if 'tis refused by one, 
May win it from another kinder heart ; 
But he, who is denied his right by those 
Whose place it is to do no wrong, is poorer 
Than the rejected beggar — he 's a slave — 
And that am I, and thou, and all our house, 
Even from this hour. 

Ber. F. My princely uncle ! you are too much moved : 
I grant it was a gross offence, and grossly 
Left without fitting punishment : but still 
This fury doth exceed the provocation, 
Or any provocation: if we are wronged, 
We will ask justice ; if it be denied, 
We '11 take it ; but do all this in calmness — 
Deep Vengeance is the daughter of deep Silence. 

Doge. I tell thee — must I tell thee — what thy father 
Would have required no words to comprehend ? 
Hast thou no feeling save the external sense 
Of torture from the touch ? — hast thou no soul — 
No pride — no passion — no deep sense of honour ? 

Ber. F. 'Tis the first time that honour has been doubted, 
And were the last from any other sceptic. 

Doge. You know the full offence of this born villain, 
This creeping, coward, rank, acquitted felon, 
Who threw his sting into a poisonous libel, 
And on the honour of — O Heav'n ! — my wife, 
The nearest, dearest part of all men's honour, 
Left a base slur to pass from mouth to mouth 
Of loose mechanics, with all coarse foul comments, 
And villanous jests, and blasphemies obscene ; 
While sneering nobles, in more polished guise, 
Whispered the tale, and smiled upon the lie 
Which made me look like them — a courteous wittol, 
Patient — ay, proud — it may be, of dishonour. 

Ber. F. But still it was a lie — you knew it false, 
And so did all men. 

Doge. Nephew, the high Roman 
Said, " Csesar's wife must not even be suspected," 
And put her from him. 

Ber. F. But what redress 
Did you expect as his fit punishment ? 



SCENES FROM DRAMATIC WRITERS. 269 

Doge. Death ! 

Ber. F. Do not doubt it, 
He shall not live till sunset. 

Doge. Hold, nephew : this 
Would have sufficed but yesterday ; at present 
I have no further wrath against this man. 

Ber. F. What mean you ? Is not the offence redoubled 
By this most rank — I will not say — acquittal ; 
For it is worse, being full acknowledgment 
Of the offence, and leaving it unpunished ? 

Doge. It is redoubled, but not now by him : 
The Forty hath decreed a month's arrest — 
He must obey the Forty, 

Ber F. Obey them ! 
Who have forgot their duty to the sovereign ? 

Doge. Why, yes ; — boys, you perceive it then at last : 
Whether as fellow- citizen, who sues 
For justice, or as sovereign who commands it, 
They have defrauded me of both my rights 
(For here the sovereign is a citizen) ; 
But, notwithstanding, harm not thou a hair 
Of Steno's head — he shall not wear it long. 

Ber. F. Not twelve hours longer, had you left to me 
The mode and means. 

Doge. No, nephew, he must live ; 
At least, just now — a life so vile as his 
Were nothing at this hour. 

Ber. F. Your wishes are my law ; and yet I fain 
Would prove to you how near unto my heart 
The honour of our house must ever be. 

Doge. Fear not ; you shall have time and place of proof; 
But be not thou too rash, as I have been. 
I am ashamed of my own anger now ; 
I pray you, pardon me. 

Ber. F. Why that's my uncle ! 
The leader, and the statesman, and the chief 
Of commonwealths, and sovereign of himself! 
I wondered to perceive you so forget 
All prudence in your fury at these years, 
Although the cause — 

Doge. Ay, think upon the cause— 



270 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Forget it not : — When you lie down to rest, 

Let it be black among your dreams ; and when 

The morn returns, so let it stand between 

The sun and you, as an ill- omen' d cloud 

Upon a summer day of festival : 

So will it stand to me ; — but speak not, stir not, — 

Leave all to me : — we shall have much to do, 

And you shall have a part. — But now retire, 

'Tis fit I were alone. Byron. 



RIENZI. 

First Selection. 

Alberti, Paolo, citizens, etc., crowd in the background. 

First Cit. This is the chosen spot. A brave assemblage ! 

Second Cit. Why, yes. No marvel that Rienzi struck 
So bold a blow, I had heard shrewd reports 
Of heats, and discontents, and gathering bands, 
But never dream' d of Cola. 

Poo. 'Tis the spot ! 
Where loiters he ? The night wears on apace. 

Alb. It is not yet the hour. 

First Git. Who speaks ? 

Another Cit. Alberti, 
The captain of the guard ; he, and his soldiers, 
Have joined our faction. 

Alb. Comrades we shall gain 
An easy victory. The Ursini, 

Drunk with false hope and brute debauch, feast high 
Within their palace. Never wore emprise 
A fairer face. 

Pao. And yet the summer, heaven, 
Sky, moon, and stars, are overcast. The saints 
Send that this darkness 

Enter Rienzi, from the back. 

Eie. {Advancing to front]. Darkness! did ye never 
Watch the dark glooming of the thunder cloud, 



SCENES FROM DRAMATIC WRITERS. 271 

Ere the storm burst ? We '11 light this darkness, sir, 
"With the brave flash of spear and sword. 

All the Citizens shout. Rienzi ! 
Live, brave Rienzi ! honest Cola ! 

Rie. Friends ! 

Citizens. Long live Rienzi ! 

Alb. Listen to him. 

Rie. Friends j/k_ 

I come not here to talk. Ye know too well 
The story of our thraldrom. We are slaves ! 
The bright sun rises to his course, and lights 
A race of slaves ! — He sets, and his last beam 
Falls on a slave: not such as, swept along 
By the full tide of power, the conqueror leads 
To crimson glory and undying fame. 
But base ignoble slaves, — slaves to a horde 
Of petty tyrants, feudal despots ; lords 
Rich in some dozen paltry villages, — 
Strong in some hundred spearmen, — only great 
In that strange spell — a name. Each hour, dark fraud, 
Or open rapine, or protected murder, 
Cry out against them. But this very day, 
An honest man, my neighbour [pointing to Paolo~] , there 

he stands, — 
Was struck, — struck like a dog, by one who wore 
The badge of Ursini ; because forsooth, 
He tossed not high his ready cap in air, 
Nor lifted up his voice in servile shouts, 
At sight of that great ruffian. Be we men, 
And suffer such dishonor ? Men, and wash not 
The stain away in blood ? Such shames are common : 
I have known deeper wrongs. I that speak to ye, 
I had a brother once, a gracious boy, 
Full of all gentleness, of calmest hope, — 
Of sweet and quiet joy — 
How I loved 

That gracious boy ! Younger by fifteen years, 
Brother at once and son ! 
In one short hour 

The pretty harmless boy was slain ! I saw 
The corse, the mangled corse, and when I cried 



272 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

For vengeance !^-Rouse ye, Romans ! — Eouse, ye slaves ! 

Have ye brave sons ? — Look in the next fierce brawl 

To see them die. Have ye fair daughters ? — Look 

To see them live, torn from your arms, distained, 

Dishonoured ; and, if ye dare call for justice, 

Be answered by the lash, Yet, this is Eome, 

That sate on her seven hills, and from her throne 

Of beauty^jpjed the world ! Yet, we are Romans. 

Why, in that elder day, to be a Roman 

Was greater than a king ! And once again, — 

Hear me, ye walls, that echoed to the tread 

Of either Brutus ! once again, I swear, 

The eternal city shall be free ; her sons 

Shall walk with princes. Ere to-morrow's dawn, 

The tyrants — 

First Cit. Hush ! Who passes there ? 

[Citizens retire back. 

Alb. A foe, 
By his proud bearing. Seize him. 

Bie. As I deem, 
'Tis Angelo Colonna. Touch him not, — 
I would hold parley with him. Good Alberti, 
The hour is nigh. Away ! [Exit Alberti. 

Enter Angelo Colonna. 

Now sir ! 

Ang. What be ye, 
That thus in stern and watchful mystery 
Cluster beneath the veil of night, and start 
To hear a stranger's foot ? 

Bie. Romans. 

Ang. And wherefore 
Meet ye, my countrymen ? 

Bie. For freedom. 

Ang. Surely, 
Thou art Cola di Rienzi ? 
I knew thee by the words. 
Who, save thyself, in this bad age, when man 
Lies prostrate like yon temple, dared conjoin 
The sounds of Rome and freedom ? 

Bie. I shall teach 



SCENES FROM DRAMATIC WRITERS. 273 

The world to blend those words, as in the days 
Before the Caesars. Thou shalt be the first 
To hail the union. I have seen thee hang 
On tales of the world's mistress, till thine eyes 
Flooded with strong emotion, have let fall 
Big tear-drops on thy cheeks, and thy young hand 
Hath clenched thy maiden sword. Unsheath it now, — 
Now, at thy country's call ! What ! dost thou pause ? 
Is the flame quenched ? Dost falter ? Hence with thee, 
Pass on ! Pass whilst thou may'st. 

Ang. Hear me, Rienzi. 
Even now my spirit leaps up at the thought 
Of those brave storied days — a treasury 
Of matchless visions, bright and glorified, 
Paling the dim lights of this darkling world 
With the golden blaze of heaven ; but past and gone, 
As clouds of yesterday, as last night's dream. 

Rie. A dream ! Dost see yon Phalanx, still and stern ? 
A hundred leaders, each with such a band, 
So armed, so resolute, so fixed in will 
Wait with suppressed impatience till they hear 
The great bell of the Capitol, to spring 
At once on their proud foes. Join them. 

Ang. My father ! 

Rie. Already he hath quitted Rome. 

Ang. My kinsmen ! 

Vine. We are too strong for contest. Thou shalt see 
No other change within bur peaceful streets 
Than that of slaves to freemen. Such a change 
As is the silent step from night to day, 
From darkness into light. We talk too long. 

Ang. Yet reason with them ; — warn them. 

Rie. And their answer — 
Will be the gaol, the gibbet, or the axe, 
The keen retort of power. Why, I have reasoned ; 
And, but that I am held, amongst your great ones, 
Half madman, and half fool, these bones of mine 
Had whitened on yon wall. Warn them ! 
They met 

At every step dark warnings. The pure air, 
Where'er they passed, was heavy with the weight 

n5 



274 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Of sullen silence ; friend met friend, nor smiled, 

Till the last footfall of the tyrant's steed 

Had died upon the ear ; and low and hoarse 

Hatred came murmuring like the deep voice 

Of the wind before the tempest. Sir, the boys, — 

The unfledged boys, march at their mother's hist, 

Beside their grandsires ; even the girls of Rome, — 

The gentle and the delicate, array 

Their lovers in this cause. I have one yonder, 

Claudia Rienzi, — thou hast seen the maid — 

A silly trembler, a slight fragile toy, 

As ever nursed a dove, or reared a flower, — 

Yet she, even she, is pledged — 

Ang. To whom ? to whom ? 

Eie. To liberty. Was never virgin vowed 
In the fair temple over right our house 
To serve the goddess, Vesta, as my child 
Is dedicated to Freedom. A king's son 
Might kneel in vain for Claudia. None shall wed her, 
Save a true champion of the cause. 

Ang. I'll join ye: [Gives his hand to Rienzi. 

How shall I swear ? 

Eie. [to the people']. Friends, comrades, countrymen ! 
I bring unhoped-for aid. Young Angelo, 
The immediate heir of the Colonna, craves 
To join your band. 

All the citizens shout. He's welcome ! 

Ang. Hear me swear : — 
By Rome — by freedom — by Rienzi ! Comrades, 
How have ye titled your deliverer ? Consul — 
Dictator, emperor ? 

The people shout. Consul! Emperor! etc., etc. 

Eie. No : 
Those names have been so often steeped in blood, 
So shamed by folly, so profaned by sin, 
The sound seems ominous. — I'll none of them. 
Call me the tribune of the people ; there 
My honouring duty lies. 

The citizens shout. Hail to our Tribune ! 

Eie. Hark !— the bell, the bell ! 
The knell of tyranny — the mighty voice, 



SCENES FROM DRAMATIC WRITERS. 275 

That, to the city and the plain — to earth, 

And listening heaven, proclaims the glorious tale 

Of Rome re-born, and Freedom. See, the clouds 

Are swept away, and the moon's boat of light 

Sails in the clear blue sky, and million stars 

Look out on us, and smile. 

Hark ! that great voice 

Hath broke our bondage. Look, without a stroke 

The capitol is won — the gates unfold — 

The keys are at our feet. Alberti, friend, 

How shall I pay thy service ? Citizens ! 

First to possess the palace citadel — 

The famous strength of Rome ; then to sweep on, 

Triumphant, through her streets. 

Rienzi pauses. 
Oh ! glorious wreck 

Of gods and Caesars ! thou shalt reign again, 
Queen of the world ; and I — come on, come on, 
My people ! 

Citizens. Live Rienzi— live our Tribune ! 

MlSS MlTFORD. 



-RIENZI. 

Second Selection. 
Enter Colonna, Ursini, Frangipani, Savelli, Castello, 

ETC. 

Col. Gibbet and cord ! a base plebeian death ! 
And he the head of the great Roman name, 
That rivalled the Colonna ! Ursini, 
Thy brother shall not die. The grief is thine, 
The shame is general. How say ye, barons ? 

Urs. If ye resist ye share his doom, Plead ! plead ! 
Dissemble with the tyrant, — stifle hate, 
And master scorn, as I have done. Plead for him. 

Col. To Cola ! Can I frame my speech to sue 
To Cola — most familiar of the drones 
That thronged my hall of afternoons, content 
To sit below the salt, and bear all jests, — 
The retinue and pest of greatness. Sue 
To Cola! 



*276 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Urs. Fear not, but revenge will come 
We being friends, from whose dissension sprang 
The usurper's strength. An hour will come. 

Enter Angelo, Colonna. 

Lord Angelo 

Thou wilt not fail us. 

Ang. Surely, no ! 'tis stern, [Goes up to Ursini. 

Revengeful, cruel, pitiless ! The people — 
To soothe the fickle people — yet he 's wiser : 
He '11 be persuaded. 

Fra. He approaches. 

Enter Rienzi attended. 

Hie. Why, this 
Is well, my lords, this full assemblage. Now 
The chief of Rome stands fitly girt with names 
Strong as their towers around him. Fall not off, 
And we shall be impregnable. 
Angelo Colonna, 

A double welcome ! Rome lacked half her state 
Wanting her princely columns. 

Col. Sir, I come 
A suitor to thee. — Martin Ursini, — 

Rie. When last his name was on my lips — Well, sir, 
Thy suit, thy suit ! If pardon, take at once 
My answer — No, 

Ang. Yet, mercy — 

Hie. Angelo, 
Waste not thy pleadings on a desperate cause 
And a resolved spirit. She awaits thee. 
Haste to that fairer court. [Exit Colonna. 

My Lord Colonna, 
This is a needful justice. 

Col. Noble Tribune, 
It is a crime which custom — 

Rie. Ay, the law 
Of the strong against the weak — your law, the law 
Of the sword and spear. But, gentles, ye live now 
Under the good estate. 



SCENES FROM DRAMATIC WRITERS. 277 

Sav. He is noble. 

Bie. Therefore, 
A thousand times he dies. Ye are noble, sirs, 
And need a warning. 

Col. Sick, almost to death. 

Bie. Ye have less cause to grieve. 

Cas. Remember, Tribune, 
He hath two uncles, cardinals. Wouldst outrage 
The sacred college ? 

Bie. The lord cardinals, 
Meek, pious, lowly men, and loving virtue, 
Will render thanks to him who wipes a blot 
So flagrant from their name. 

Col. An Ursini ! 
Head of the Ursini ! 

Urs. Mine own brother ! 

Bie. And darest talk thou to me of brothers ? Thou, 
Whose groom — wouldst have me break my own just laws, 
To save thy brother ? Thine ! Hast thou forgotten 
When that most beautiful and blameless boy, 
The prettiest piece of innocence that ever 
Breathed in this sinful world, lay at thy feet, 
Slain by thy pampered minion, and I knelt 
Before thee for redress, whilst thou — didst never 
Hear talk of retribution ! This is justice, 
Pure justice, not revenge ! — -Mark well, my lords, — 
Pure equal justice. Martin Ursini 
Had open trial, is guilty, is condemned, 
And he shall die ! 

Col. Yet listen to us — 

Bie. Lords, 
If ye could range before me all the peers, 
Prelates, and potentates of Christendom, — 
The holy pontiff kneeling at my knee, 
And emperors crouching at my feet, to sue 
For this great robber, still I should be blind 
As justice. But this very day a wife, 
One infant hanging at her breast, and two, 
Scarce bigger, first born twins of misery, 
Clinging to the poor rags that scarcely hid 
Her squalid form, grasped at my bridal-rein 



278 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

To beg her husband's life ; condemned to die 

For some vile petty theft, some paltry scudi ; 

And, whilst the fiery war-horse chafed and reared, 

Shaking his crest, and plunging to get free, 

There, amidst the dangerous coil, unmoved, she stood, 

Pleading in broken words, and piercing shrieks, 

And hoarse low shivering sobs, the very cry 

Of nature ! And, when I at last said No — 

For I said No to her — she flung herself 

And those poor innocent babes between the stones 

And my hot Arab's hoofs. We saved them all, — 

Thank heaven, we saved them all ! but I said No 

To that sad woman, midst her shrieks. Ye dare not 

Ask me for mercy now. 

Sav. Yet he is noble ! 
Let him not die a felon's death. 

Rie. Again, 
Ye weary me. No more of this. Colonna, 
Thy son loves my fair daughter. 'Tis a union, 
However my young Claudia might have graced 
A monarch's side, that augurs hopefully — 
Bliss to the wedded pair, and peace to Rome, 
" And it shall be accomplished." Good my lords, 
I bid ye to the bridal ; one and all, 
I bid ye to the bridal feast. And now 
A fair good morrow ! Miss Mitpord. 



RICHARD II. 

Enter King Richard, John of Gaunt, and attendants. 

K. Rich. Old John of Gaunt, time-honoured Lancaster, 
Hast thou, according to thy oath and band, 
Brought hither Henry Hereford, thy bold son ; 
Here to make good the boisterous late appeal, 
Which then our leisure would not let us hear, 
Against the Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray ? 

Gaunt. I have, my liege. 

K. Rich. Tell me, moreover, hast thou sounded him, 
If he appeal the duke on ancient malice ; 



SCENES FROM DRAMATIC WRITERS. 279 

Or worthily, as a good subject should, 

On some known ground of treachery in him ? 

Gaunt. As near as I could sift him on that argument, 
On some apparent danger seen in him, 
Aimed at tout highness — no inveterate malice. 

K. Rich. Then call them to our presence face to face, 
And frowning, brow to brow, ourselves will hear 
The accuser and the accused freely speak : — 

[Exeunt some Attendants. 
High stomached are they both, and full of ire, 
In rage, deaf as the sea, hasty as fire, 

Re-enter Attendants with Bolixgbroke and Norfolk. 

Baling . May many years of happy days befall 
My gracious sovereign, my most loving liege ! 

Nor. Each day still better other's happiness ; 
Until the heavens, envying earth's good hap, 
Add an immortal title to your crown ! 

K. Rich. We thank you both : yet one but flatters us, 
As well appeareth by the cause you come ; 
Namely, to appeal each other of high treason. 
Cousin of Hereford, what dost thou object 
Against the Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray ? 

Baling. First (Heaven be the record to my speech !) 
In the devotion of a subject's love, 
Tendering the precious safety of my prince, 
And free from other misbegotten hate, 
Come I appellant to this princely presence. 
Now, Thomas Mowbray, do I turn to thee, 
And mark my greeting well ; for what I speak 
My body shall make good upon this earth, 
Or my divine soul answer it in heaven. 
Thou art a traitor, and a miscreant ; 
Too good to be so, and too bad to live ; 
Since the more fair and crystal is the sky, 
The uglier seem the clouds that in it fly. 
Once more, the more to aggravate the note, 
With a foul traitor's name stuff I thy throat ; 
And wish (so please my sovereign), ere I move, 
What my tongue speaks, my right drawn sword may prove. 

Nor. Let not my cold words here accuse my zeal : 



280 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

"lis not the trial of a woman's war, 

The bitter clamour of two eager tongues, 

Can arbitrate this cause betwixt us twain : 

The blood is hot that must be cooled for this. 

Yet can I not of such tame patience boast, 

As to be hushed, and nought at all to say : 

First, the fair reverence of your highness curbs me 

From giving reins and spurs to my free speech ; 

Which else would post, until it had returned 

These terms of treason doubled down his throat. 

Setting aside his high blood's royalty, 

And let him be no kinsman to my liege, 

I do defy him, and I spit at him : 

Call him a slanderous coward, and a villain: 

Which to maintain, I would allow him odds ; 

And meet him, were I tied to run a-foot 

Even to the frozen ridges of the Alps, 

Or any other ground inhabitable 

Wherever Englishman dare set his foot. 

Meantime, let this defend my loyalty, — 
By all my hopes, most falsely doth he lie. 

Boling. Pale trembling coward, there I throw my gage, 
Disclaiming here the kindred of a king ; 
And lay aside my high blood's royalty, 
Which fear, not reverence, makes thee to except : 
If guilty dread hath left thee so much strength, 
As to take up mine honour's pawn, then stoop ; 
By that, and all the rites of knighthood else, 
Will I make good against thee, arm to arm, 
What I have spoke, or thou canst worse devise. 

Nor. I take it up ; and by that sword I swear, 
Which gently laid my knighthood on my shoulder, 
I'll answer thee in any fair degree, 
Or chivalrous design of knightly trial : 
And, when I mount alive, may I not light, 
If I be traitor, or unjustly fight ! 

K Rich. What doth our cousin lay to Mowbray's charge? 
It must be great, that can inherit us 
So much as of a thought of ill in him. 

Boling. Look, what I said my life shall prove it true; — 
That Mowbray has received eight thousand nobles, 



SCENES FROM DRAMATIC WRITERS. 281 

In name of lendings, for your Highness' soldiers ; 

The which he hath detained for lewd employments, 

Like a false traitor and injurious villain. 

Besides, I say, and will in battle prove, — 

Or here, or elsewhere, to the furthest verge 

That ever was surveyed by English eye, — 

That all the treasons, for these eighteen years 

Complotted and contrived in this land, 

Fetch from false Mowbray their first head and spring. ; 

Further I say — and further will maintain 

Upon his bad life, to make all this good, — ■ 

That he did plot the Duke of Gloster's death ; 

Suggest his soon-believing adversaries ; 

And, consequently, like a traitor coward, 

Sluic'd out his innocent soul through streams of blood : 

Which blood, like sacrificing Abel's, cries, 

Even from the tongueless caverns of the earth, 

To me for justice and rough chastisement ; 

And, by the glorious worth of my descent, 

This arm shall do it, or this life be spent. 

K. Rich. How high a pitch his resolution soars ! 
Thomas of Norfolk what sayest thou to this ? 

Nor. Oh, let my sovereign turn away his face, 
And bid his ears a little while be deaf; 
Till I have told this slander of his blood, 
How God and good men hate so foul a bar* 

K. Rich. Mowbray, impartial are our eyes and ears, 
Were he my brother, nay, our kingdom's heir, 
(As he is but my father's brother's son), 
Now by my sceptre's awe I make a vow, 
Such neighbour nearness to our sacred blood 
Should nothing privilege him, nor partialise 
The unstooping firmness of my upright soul : 
He is our subject, Mowbray; so art thou; 
Free speech, and fearless, I to thee allow. 

Nor. Then, Bolingbroke, as low as to thy heart, 
Through the false passage of thy throat thou liest ; 
Three parts of that receipt I had for Calais 
Disbursed I duly to his highness' soldiers : 
The other part reserved I by consent ; 
For that my sovereign liege was in my debt, 



282 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Upon remainder of a dear account, 

Since last I went to France to fetch his queen : 

Now swallow down that lie. For Gloster's death, — 

I slew him not ; but to my own disgrace, 

Neglected my sworn duty in that case. 

For you, my noble Lord of Lancaster, 

The honourable father to my foe, 

Once I did lay an ambush for your life, 

A trespass that doth vex my grieved soul : 

But, ere I last received the sacrament, 

I did confess it ; and exactly begged 

Your grace's pardon, and, hope, I had it. 

This is my fault. As for the rest appealed, 

It issues from the rancour of a villain, 

A recreant and most degenerate traitor : 

Which in myself I boldly will defend ; 

And interchangeably hurl down my gage 

Upon this overweening traitor's foot, 

To prove myself a loyal gentleman, 

Even in the best blood chambered in his bosom : 

In haste, whereof, most heartily I pray 

Your highness to assign our trial day. 

K. Rich. Wrath-kindled gentlemen, be ruled by me ; 
Let 's purge this choler without letting blood : 
This we prescribe, though no physician ; 
Deep malice makes too deep incision: 
Forget, forgive ; conclude, and be agreed ; 
Our doctors say, this is no month to bleed. 
Good uncle, let this end where it begun ; 
We'll calm the Duke of Norfolk, you your son. 

Gaunt. To be a make-peace shall become my age : 
Throw down, my son, the Duke of Norfolk's gage. 

K. Rich. And, Norfolk, throw down his. 

Gaunt. When, Harry, when ? 
Obedience bids, I should not bid again. 

K. Rich. Norfolk, throw down, we bid ; there is no boot. 

Nor. Myself I throw, dread sovereign, at thy foot : 
My life thou shalt command, but not my shame; 
The one my duty owes ; but my fair name, 
(Despite of death), that lives upon my grave, 
To dark dishonour's use thou shalt not have. 



SCENES FROM DRAMATIC WRITERS. 283 

■ 

I am disgraced, impeached, and baffled here ; 
Pierced to the soul with slander's venomed spear ; 
The which no balm can cure, but his heart-blood 
Which breathed this poison. 

K. Rich, Rage must be withstood : 
Give me his gage : — Lions make leopards tame. 

Nor. Yea, but not change his spots : take but my shame, 
And I resign my gage. My dear dear lord, 
The purest treasure mortal times afford 
Is spotless reputation ; that away, 
Men are but gilded loam, or painted clay. 
A jewel in a ten-times-barred-up chest 
Is a bold spirit in a loyal breast. 
Mine honour is my life ; both grow in one ; 
Take honour from me, and my life is done : 
Then, dear my liege, mine honour let me try ; 
In that I live, and for that I will die. ' 

K. Rich. Cousin, throw down your gage; do you begin. 

Boling. O, heaven defend my soul from such foul sin ! 
Shall I seem crest-fallen in my father's sight ? 
Or with pale beggar fear impeach my height, 
Before this outdared dastard ? Ere my tongue 
Shall wound mine honour with such feeble wrong, 
Or sound so base a parle, my teeth shall tear 
The slavish motive of recanting fear ; 
And spit it bleeding, in his high disgrace, 
Where shame doth harbour, even in Mowbray's face. 

K. Rich. We were not born to sue, but to command : 
Which since we cannot do to make you friends, 
Be ready, as your lives shall answer it, 
At Coventry, upon Saint Lambert's day ; 
There shall your swords and lances arbitrate 
The swelling difference of your settled hate ; 
Since we cannot atone you, you shall see 
Justice design the victor's chivalry. 
Lord Marshal, command our officers at arms, 
Be ready to direct these home-alarms. Shakespere. 



284 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

ROMEO AND JULIET. 
Enter Mercutio and Benvolio. 

Ben. I pray thee, good Mercutio, let 's retire ; 
The day is hot, the Capulets abroad ; 
And if we meet, we shall not 'scape a brawl, 
For now these hot days is the mad blood stirring. 

Mer. Thou art like one of those fellows, that when he 
enters the confines of a tavern, claps me his sword upon 
the table and says, " Heaven send me no need of thee !" 
and, by the operation of the second cup, draws it on the 
drawer, when indeed there is no need. 

Ben. Am I like such a fellow ? 

Mer. Come, come,- thou art as hot a Jack in thy mood as 
any in Italy : and as soon moved to be moody, and as soon 
moody to be moved. 

Ben. And what to ? 

Mer. Nay, an there were two such, we should have none 
shortly, for one would kill the other. Thou ! why thou 
wilt quarrel with a man that hath a hair more, or a hair 
less, in his beard than thou hast ; thou wilt quarrel with 
a man for cracking nuts, having no other reason than 
because thou hast hazel eyes ; what eye, but such an eye 
would spy out such a quarrel ? Thy head is as full of 
quarrels as an egg is full of meat : and yet thy head hath 
been beaten as addle as an egg, for quarrelling. Thou hast 
quarrelled with a man for coughing in the street, because 
he hath wakened thy dog that hath lain asleep in the sun. 
Didst thou not fall out with a tailor for wearing his new 
doublet before Easter ? With another for tying his new 
shoes with old riband ? And yet thou wilt tutor me from 
quarrelling ! 

Ben. An I were so apt to quarrel as thou art, any man 
should buy the fee-simple of my life for an hour and a 
quarter. 

Mer. The fee-simple ? O simple ! 

Enter Tybalt, and others, 
Ben. By my head, here come the Capulets. 



SCENES FROM DRAMATIC WRITERS. 285 

Mer. By my heel, I care not. 

Tyb. Follow me close, for I will speak to them. 
Gentlemen, good den : a word with one of you. 

Mer. And but one word with one of us ? Couple it 
"With something ; make it a word and a blow. 

Tyb. You will find me apt enough to that, sir, 
an you will give me occasion. 

Mer. Could you not take some occasion without giving ? 

Tyb. Mercutio, thou consortest with Romeo, — 

Mer. Consort ? What, dost thou make us minstrels ? An 
thou make minstrels of us, look to hear nothing but dis- 
cords ; here 's my fiddlestick ; here is that shall make you 
dance. Zounds, consort ! [Laying his hand on his sword. 

Ben. We talk here in the public haunt of men, 
Either withdraw unto some private place, 
Or reason coldly of your grievances, 
Or else depart; here all eyes gaze on us. 

Mer. Men's eyes were made to look ; and let them gaze, 
I will not budge for no man's pleasure, I. 

Enter Romeo. 

Tyb. Well, peace be with you, sir, here comes my man. 

Mer. But, I '11 be hanged, sir, if he wear your livery : 
Marry, go before to the field, he '11 be your follower ; 
Your worship in that sense may call him man. 

Tyb. Romeo, the hate I bear thee, can afford 
No better term than this — thou art a villain. 

Bom. Tybalt, the reason that I have to love thee 
Doth much excuse the appertaining rage 
To such a greeting : — Villain, am I none ; 
Therefore farewell ; I see thou knowst me not. 

Tyb. Boy, this shall not excuse the injuries that 
Thou hast done me, therefore turn, and draw. 

Bom. I do protest, I never injured thee, 
But love thee better than thou canst devise, 
Till thou shalt know the reason of my love : 
And so, good Capulet, which name I tender 
As dearly as mine own, be satisfied. 

Mer. O calm, dishonourable, vile submission ! 
Alia stoccata carries it away. [Draws. 

Tybalt, you rat-catcher, will you walk ? 



286 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Tyb. "What wouldst thou have with me ? 

Mer. Good king of cats, nothing but one of your nine 
lives; that I mean to make bold withal, and, as you shall 
use me hereafter, dry-beat the rest of the eight. Will you 
pluck your sword out of his pilcher by the ears, make haste 
lest mine be about your ears ere it be out. 

Tyb. I am for you. [Drawing. 

Bom. Gentle Mercutio, put thy rapier up. 

Mer. Come, sir, your passado. [They fight. 

Bom. Draw, Benvolio —beat down their weapons — 
Gentlemen, for shame, forbear this outrage — 
Tybalt — Mercutio. [Exit Tybalt. 

Mer. I am hurt — 
A plague o' both the houses ! I am sped. 
Is he gone, and hath nothing ? 

Ben. What, art thou hurt ? 

Mer. Ay, ay, a scratch, marry 'tis enough. 
Where is my page ; go, villain, fetch me a surgeon. 

[Exit Page. 

Rom. Courage, man, the hurt cannot be much. 

Mer. No, 'tis not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a 
church door, but 'tis enough ; /twill serve ; ask for me to- 
morrow, and you shall find me a grave man. I am pep- 
pered, I warrant for this world, a plague o' both your 
houses ! What a dog, a rat, a mouse, a cat, to scratch a 
man to death ? A braggart, a rogue, a villain, that fights 
by the book of arithmetic. Why the deuce came you 
between us ? I was hurt under your arm. 

Bom. I thought all for the best. 

Mer. Help me into some house, Benvolio, 
Or I shall faint ; a plague of both your houses ! 
They have made worm's meat of me, 
I have it and soundly too : — Your houses ! 

[Romeo and Benvolio lead Mercutio off. 
Shakespere. 



SCENES FROM DRAMATIC WRITERS. 287 



THE MAID OF HONOUR. 
Enter Roberto, Bertholdo, Gasparo, Antonio, Aborni, 

ASTUTIO, FlJLGENTIO, AMBASSADOR, ETC. 

Bob. We are prepared to hear. 

Amb. Your majesty- 
Hath been long since familiar, I doubt not, 
With the desperate fortunes of my lord ; and pity 
Of the much that your confederate hath suffered, 
You being his last refuge, may persuade you 
Not alone to compassionate, but to lend 
Your royal aids to stay him in his fall 
To certain ruin. He, too late, is conscious 
That his ambition to encroach upon 
His neighbour's territories, with the danger of 
His liberty, nay, his life, hath brought in question 
His own inheritance : but youth and heat 
Of blood, in your interpretation, may 
Both plead and mediate for him. I must grant it 
An error in him, being denied the favors 
Of the fair princess of Sienna (though 
He sought her in a noble way), to endeavour 
To force affection by surprisal of 
Her principal seal, Sienna. 

Rob. Which now proves 
The seat of his captivity, not triumph : 
Heaven is still just. 

Amb. And yet that justice is 
To be with mercy tempered, which heaven's deputies 
Stand bound to minister. The injured duchess, 
By reason taught, as nature, could not, with 
The reparation of her wrongs, but aim at 
A brave revenge ; and my lord feels, too late, 
That innocence will find friends. The great Gonzaga 
The honour of his order (I must praise 
Virtue, though in an enemy), he whose fights 
And conquests hold one number, rallying up 
Her scattered troops, before we could get time 
To victual or to man the conquered city, 
Sat down before it ; and presuming that 



288 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

'Tis not to be relieved, admits no parley, 

Our flags of truce hung out in vain : nor will he 

Lend an ear to composition, but exacts, 

With the rendering up the town, the goods and lives 

Of all within the walls, and of all sexes, 

To be at his discretion. 

Rob. Since injustice 
In your duke meets this correction, can you press us, 
"With any seeming argument of reason, 
In foolish pity to decline his dangers, 
To draw them on ourself ? Shall we not be 
Warn'd by his harms ? The league proclaim'd between us 
Bound neither of us further than to aid 
Each other, if by foreign force invaded ; 
And so far in my honour I was tied. 
But since, without our counsel, or allowance, 
He hath ta'en arms ; with his good leave, he must 
Excuse us if we steer not on a rock 
We see, and may avoid. Let other monarchs 
Contend to be made glorious by proud war, 
And, with the blood of their poor subjects, purchase 
Increase of empire, and augment their cares 
In keeping that which was by wrongs extorted, 
Gilding unjust invasions with the trim 
Of glorious conquests ; we, that would be known 
The father of our people, in our study 
And vigilance for their safety, must not change 
Their ploughshares into swords, and force them from 
The secure shade of their own vines, to be 
Scorch'd with the flames of war ; or, for our sport, 
Expose their lives to ruin. 

Arab. Will you, then, 
In his extremity, forsake your friend ? 

Rob. No ; but preserve ourself. 

Bert. Cannot the beams 
Of honour thaw your icy fears? 

Rob. Who's that ? 

Bert. A kind of brother, sir, howe'er your subject ; 
Your father's son, and one who blushes that 
You are not heir to his brave spirit and vigour, 
As to his kingdom. 



SCENES FROM DRAMATIC WRITERS. 289 

Rob. How's this ? 

Bert. Sir, to be 
His living chronicle, and to speak his praise, 
Cannot deserve your anger. 

Rob. Where's your warrant 
For this presumption ? 

Bert. Here, sir, in my heart: 
Let sycophants, that feed upon your favors, 
Style coldness in you caution, and prefer 
Your ease before your honour ; and conclude, 
To eat and sleep supinely is the end 
Of human blessings : I must tell you, sir, 
Virtue, if not in action, is a vice ; 
And when we move not forward, we go backward : 
Nor is this peace, the nurse of drones and cowards, 
Our health, but a disease. 

Gasp. Well urged, my lord. 

Ant. Perfect what is so well begun. 

Arab. And bind 
My lord your servant. 

Rob. Hair-brain'd fool ! what reason 
Canst thou infer, to make this good ? 

Bert. A thousand, 
Not to be contradicted. But consider 
Where your command lies : 'tis not, sir, in France, 
Spain, Germany, Portugal, but in Sicily ; 
An island, sir. Here are no mines of gold 
Or silver to enrich you ; no worm spins 
Silk in her breast, to make distinction 
Between you and a peasant, in your habits ; 
No fish lives near our shores, whose blood can dye 
Scarlet or purple ; all that we possess, 
With beasts we have in common : nature did 
Design us to be warriors, and to break through 
Our ring, the sea, by which we are environ'd ; 
And we by force must fetch in what is wanting, 
Or precious to us. Add to this, we are 
A populous nation, and. increase so fast, 
That, if we by our providence are not sent 
Abroad in colonies, or fall by the sword, 
Not Sicily, though now it were more fruitful 

o 



290 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Than when 'twas styled the granary of great Rome, 
Can yield our numerous fry bread : we must starve, 
Or eat up one another. 

Ador. The king hears 
With much attention. 

Ast. And seems moved with what 
Bertholdo hath deliver' d. 

Bert. May you live long, sir, 
The king of peace, so you deny not us 
The glory of the war ; let not our nerves 
Shrink up with sloth, nor, for want of employment, 
Make younger brothers thieves : it is their swords, sir, 
Must sow and reap their harvest. If examples 
May move you more than arguments, look on England 
The empress of the European isles, 
And unto whom alone ours yields precedence ; 
When did she nourish so, as when she was 
The mistress of the ocean, her navies 
Putting a girdle round about the world ? 

Ador. In his looks he seems 
To break ope Janus' temple. 

Ast. How these younglings 
Take fire from him ! 

Ador. It works an alteration 
Upon the king. 

Ant. I can forbear no longer : 
War, war, my sovereign ! 

Ful. The king appears 
Resolved, and does prepare to speak. 

Bob. Think not 
Our counsel's built upon so weak a base, 
As to be overturn'd, or shaken, with 
Tempestuous winds of words. As I, my lord, 
Before resolved you, I will not engage 
My person in this quarrel ; neither press 
My subjects to maintain it: yet, to show 
My rule is gentle, and that I have feeling 
O' your master's sufferings, since these gallants, weary 
Of the happiness of peace, desire to taste 
The bitter sweets of war, we do consent 
That, as adventurers and volunteers, 



SCENES FROM DRAMATIC WRITERS. 291 

No way compelled by us, they may make trial, 
Of their boasted valours. 

Bert. We desire no more* 

Rob. "lis well ; and, but my grant in this, expect not 
Assistance from me. Govern, as you please, 
The province you make choice of; for, I vow 
By all things sacred, if that thou miscarry 
In this rash undertaking, I will hear it 
No otherwise than as a sad disaster, 
Fallen on a stranger ; nor will I esteem 
That man my subject, who, in thy extremes, 
In purse or person aids thee. Take your fortune : 
You know me ; I have said it. So, my lord, 
You have my absolute answer. 

Massinger. 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 

First Selection. 
Enter Bassanio and Shylock. 

Shy. Three thousand ducats, — well. 

Bass. Ay, sir, for three months. 

Shy. For three months, — well. 

Bass. For the which, as I told you, Antonio shall be 
bound. 

Shy. Antonio shall become bound, — well. 

Bass. May you stead me ? Will you pleasure me ? 
Shall I know your answer ? 

Shy. Three thousand ducats, for three months, and 
Antonio bound. 

Bass. Your answer to that. 

Shy. Antonio is a good man. 

Bass. Have you heard any imputation to the contrary ? 

Shy. O no, no, no, no ; — my meaning in saying he is a 
good man is, to have you understand me that he is suf- 
ficient : yet his means are in supposition: he hath an 
argosy bound to Tripolis, another to the Indies ; I under- 
stand, moreover, upon the Rialto, he hath a third at 
Mexico, a fourth for England; — and other ventures he 



292 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

hath, squandered abroad. But ships are but boards, sailors 
but men : there be land-rats and water-rats, water thieves 
and land thieves ; I mean pirates ; and then, there is the 
peril of waters, winds, and rocks : The man is, notwith- 
standing, sufficient ; — three thousand ducats ; — I think I 
may take his bond. 

Bass. Be assured you may. 

Shy. I will be assured I may ; and that I may be assured, 
I will bethink me : May I speak with Antonio ? 

Enter Antonio. 

Bass. This is Signior Antonio. 

Shy. [Aside.'] How like a fawning publican he looks ! 
I hate him, for he is a Christian : 
But more, for that, in low simplicity, 
He lends out money gratis, and brings down 
The rate of usance here with us in Venice. 
If I can catch him once upon the hip, 
I will feed fat the ancient grudge I bear him. 
He hates our sacred nation ; and he rails, 
Even there where merchants most do congregate, 
On me, my bargains, and my well-won thrift, 
Which he calls interest : Cursed be my tribe, 
If I forgive him ! 

Bass. Shylock, do you hear ? 

Shy. I am debating of my present store : 
And, by the near guess of my memory, 
I cannot instantly raise up the gross 
Of full three thousand ducats : What of that ? 
Tubal, a wealthy Hebrew of my tribe, 
Will furnish me: But soft: How many months 
Do you desire ? — Rest you fair, good signior, 

[To Antonio. 
Your worship was the last man in our mouths. 

Ant. Shylock, albeit I neither lend nor borrow, 
By taking, nor by giving of excess, 
Yet, to supply the ripe wants of my friend, 
I '11 break a custom : — Is he yet possessed 
How much you would ? 

Shy. Ay, ay ; three thousand ducats. 

Ant. And for three months. 



SCENES FROM DRAMATIC WRITERS. 293 

Shy, I had forgot, — three months, you told me so. 
Well, then, your bond ; and, let me see. But hear you: 
Methought you said, you neither lend nor borrow, 
Upon advantage. 

Ant. I do never use it. 

Shy. Three thousand ducats, — 'tis a good round sum. 
Three months from twelve, then let me see the rate. 

Ant. Well, Shylock, shall we be beholding to you ? 

Shy. Signior Antonio, many a time and oft 
In the Rialto you have rated me 
About my monies and my usances : 
Still have I born it with a patient shrug ; 
For sufferance is the badge of all our tribe : 
You called me misbeliever, cut-throat dog, 
And spat upon my Jewish gaberdine, 
And all for use of that which is mine own. 
Well, then, it now appears you need my help : 
Go to, then ; you come to me, and you say, 
" Shylock, we would have monies" : You say so ; 
You, that did void your rheum upon my beard, 
And foot me, as you spurn a stranger cur 
Over your threshold ; monies is your suit. 
What should I say to you ? Should I not say, 
" Hath a dog money ? is it possible 
A cur can lend three thousand ducats ?" or 
Shall I bend low, and in a bondman's key, 
With 'bated breath, and whispering humbleness, 
Say this, — 

" Fair sir, you spat on me on Wednesday last ; 
You spurned me such a day ; another time 
You called me Dog ; and for these courtesies 
I '11 lend yon thus much monies" ? 

Ant. 1 am as like to call thee so again, 
To spit on thee again, to spurn thee too. 
If thou wilt lend this money, lend it not 
As to thy friends (for when did friendship take 
A breed for barren metal of his friend ?) 
But lend it rather to thine enemy ; 
Who, if he break, thou may'st with better face 
Exact the penalties. 

Shy . Why, look you, how you storm ! 



294 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

I would be friends with you, and have your love ; 
Forget the shames that you have stained me with ; 
Supply your present wants, and take no doit 
Of usance for my monies, and you '11 not hear me : 
This is kind I offer. 

Ant. This were kindness. 

Shy. This kindness will I show : 
Go with me to a notary : seal me there 
Your single bond ; and, in a merry sport, 
If you repay me not on such a day, 
In such a place, such sum, or sums, as are 
Expressed in the condition, let the forfeit 
Be nominated for an equal pound 
Of your fair flesh, to be cut off and taken 
In what part of your body pleaseth me. 

Ant Content, in faith ; I '11 seal to such a bond, 
And say, there is much kindness in the Jew. 

Bass. You shall not seal to such a bond for me ; 
I '11 rather dwell in my necessity. 

Ant. Why, fear not, man ; I will not forfeit it ; 
Within these two months, that's a month before 
This bond expires, I do expect return 
Of thrice three times the value of this bond. 

Shy. O father Abraham, what these Christians are, 
Whose own hard dealing teaches them suspect 
The thoughts of others ! Pray you, tell me this ; 
If he should break his day, what should I gain 
By the exaction of the forfeiture ? 
A pound of man's flesh, taken from a man, 
Is not so estimable, profitable neither, 
As flesh of muttons, beefs, or goats. I say, 
To buy his favour I extend this friendship ; 
If he will take it, so ; if not, adieu ; 
And, for my love, I pray you wrong me not. 

Ant. Yes, Shylock, I will seal unto this bond. 

Shy. Then meet me forthwith at the notary's ; 
Give him direction for this merry bond, 
And I will go and purse the ducats straight ; 
See to my house, left in the fearful guard 
Of an unthrifty knave ; and presently 
I will be with you. [Exit. 



SCENES FROM DRAMATIC WRITERS. 295 

Ant. Hie thee, gentle Jew. 
This Hebrew will turn Christian ; he grows kind. . 

Bass. I like not fair terms and a villain's mind. 

Ant. Come on ; in this there can be no dismay, 
My ships come home a month before the day. 

Shakespere. 



MERCHANT OF VENICE. 

Second Selection. 

The Grand Duke, Senators, Antonio, Bassanio, Gra- 
tiano, Solanio, and others. 

Duke. What, is Antonio here ? 

Ant. Ready, so please your grace. 

Duke. I am sorry for thee ; thou art come to answer 
A stony adversary, an inhuman wretch 
Uncapable of pity, void and empty 
From any dram of mercy. 

Ant. I have heard, 
Your grace hath ta'en great pains to qualify 
His rigorous course ; but since he stands obdurate, 
And that no lawful means can carry me 
Out of his envy's reach, I do oppose 
My patience to his fury ; and am armed 
To suffer, with a quietness of spirit, 
The very tyranny and rage of his. 

Duke. Go one, and call the Jew into the court. . 

Salan. He 's ready at the door : he comes, my lord. 

Enter Shylock. 

Duke. Make room, and let him stand before our face. 
Shylock, the world thinks, and I think so too, 
That thou but lead'st this fashion of thy malice 
To the last hour of act ; and then, 'tis thought 
Thou 'It shew thy mercy and remorse, more strange 
Than is thy strange apparent cruelty : 
And where thou now exact'st the penalty, 
(Which is a pound of this poor merchant's flesh), 
Thou wilt not only lose the forfeiture, 



296 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

But touched with human gentleness and love, 

Forgive a moiety of the principal ; 

Glancing an eye of pity on his losses, 

That have of late so huddled on his back, 

Enough to press a royal merchant down, 

And pluck commiseration of his state 

From brassy bosoms, and rough hearts of flint, 

From stubborn Turks and Tartars, never trained 

To offices of tender courtesy. 

We all expect a gentle answer, Jew. 

Shy. I have possessed your grace of what I purpose ; 
And by our holy Sabbath have I sworn, 
To have the due and forfeit of my bond : 
If you deny it, let the danger light 
Upon your charter, and your city's freedom. 
You '11 ask me, why I rather choose to have 
A weight of carrion flesh, than to receive 
Three thousand ducats : I '11 not answer that : 
But, say, it is my humour. Is it answered ? 
What if my house be troubled with a rat, 
And I be pleased to give ten thousand ducats 
To have it baned ? What, are you answered yet ? 
Some men there are, love not a gaping pig ; 
Some, that are mad, if they behold a cat; 
Now for your answer. 
As there is no firm reason to be rendered, 
Why he cannot abide a gaping pig ; 
Why he, a harmless necessary cat ; 
So can I give no reason, nor I will not, 
More than a lodged hate, and a certain loathing 
I bear Antonio, that I follow thus 
A losing suit against him. Are you answered ? 

Bass. This is no answer, thou unfeeling man, 
To excuse the current of thy cruelty. 

Shy. I am not bound to please thee with my answer. 

Bass. Do all men kill the things they do not love ? 

Shy. Hates any man the thing he would not kill ? 

Bass. Every offence is not a hate at first. 

Shy. What, wouldst thou have a serpent sting thee twice, 

Ant. I pray you, think you question with the Jew. 
You may as well go stand upon the beach, . 



SCENES FROM DRAMATIC WRITERS. 297 

And bid the main flood bate his usual height ; 
You may as well use question with the wolf, 
Why he hath made the ewe bleat for the lamb ; 
You may as well forbid the mountain pines 
To wag their high tops, and to make no noise, 
When they are fretted with the gusts of heaven ; 
You may as well do any thing most hard, 
As seek to soften that (than which what's harder ?) 
His Jewish heart : — Therefore, I do beseech you, 
Make no more offers, use no further means, 
But, with all brief and plain conveniency, 
Let me have judgment, and the Jew his will. 

Bass. For thy three thousand ducats here is six. 

Shy. If every ducat in six thousand ducats, 
Were in six parts, and every part a ducat, 
I would not draw them, I would have my bond. 

Duke. How shalt thou hope for mercy, rendering none ? 

Shy. What judgment shall I dread, doing no wrong ? 
You have among you many a purchased slave, 
Which, like your asses, and your dogs, and mules, 
You use in abject and in slavish parts, 
Because you bought them : — Shall I say to you, 
J..et them be free, marry them to your heirs ? 
Why sweat they under burthens ? let their beds 
Be made as soft as yours, and let their palates 
Be seasoned with such viands ? You will answer, 
The slaves are ours : — So do I answer you : 
The pound of flesh, which I demand of him, 
Is dearly bought, 'tis mine, and I will have it : 
If you deny me, fie upon your law ! 
There is no force in the decrees of Venice : 
I stand for judgment : answer ; shall I have it ? 

Duke. Upon my power, I may dismiss this court, 
Unless Bellario, a learned doctor, 
Whom I have sent for to determine this, 
Come here to-day. 

Solan. My lord, here stays without 
A messenger with letters from the doctor, 
New come from Padua. 

Duke. Bring us the letters ; Call the messenger. 

o5 



298 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Enter Nerissa. 

Duke. Came you from Padua, from Bellario ? 

Ner. From both, my lord : Bellario greets your grace. 

[Presents a letter. 

Bass. Why dost thou whet thy knife so earnestly ? 

Shy. To cut the forfeiture from that bankrupt there. 

Duke. This letter from Bellario doth commend 
A young and learned doctor to our court: — 
Where is he ? 

Ner. He attendeth here hard by, 
To know your answer, whether you '11 admit him. 

Duke. With all my heart : — some three or four of you 
Go give him courteous conduct to this place. 

Enter Portia. 

Give me your hand : Came you from old Bellario ? 
Por. I did, my lord. 
Duke. You are welcome : 
Are you acquainted with the difference 
That holds this present question in the court ? 

Por. I am informed thoroughly of the cause. 
Which is the merchant here, and which the Jew ? 
Duke. Antonio and Shylock, both stand forth. 
Por. Is your name Shylock ? 
Shy. Shylock is my name. 

Por. Of a strange nature is the suit you follow ; 
Yet in such rule that the Venetian law 
Cannot impugn you, as you do proceed. — 
You stand within his danger, do you not ? [To Antonio. 
Ant. Ay, so he says. 
Por. Do you confess the bond ? 
Ant. I do. 

Por. Then must the Jew be merciful. 
Shy. On what compulsion must I ? Tell me that. 
Por. The quality of mercy is not strained ; 
It droppeth, as the gentle rain from heaven 
Upon the place beneath : it is twice blessed ; 
It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes : 
'Tis mightiest in the mightiest ; it becomes 
The throned monarch better than his crown ; 
His sceptre shews the force of temporal power, 



SCENES FROM DRAMATIC WRITERS. 299 

The attribute to awe and majesty, 

Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings ; 

But mercy is above this sceptred sway, 

It is enthroned in the hearts of kings, 

It is an attribute to God himself ; 

And earthly power doth then show likest God's, 

When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew, 

Though justice be thy plea, consider this, — 

That, in the course of justice, none of us 

Should see salvation : we do pray for mercy ; 

And that same prayer doth teach us all to render 

The deeds of mercy. I have spoke thus much, 

To mitigate the justice of thy plea; 

Which if thou follow, this strict court of Venice 

Must needs give sentence 'gainst the merchant there. 

Shy. My deeds upon my head ! I crave the law, 
The penalty and forfeit of my bond. 

For. Is he not able to discharge the money ? 

Bass. Yes, here I tender it for him in the court ? 
Yea, twice the sum : if that will not suffice, 
I will be bound to pay it ten times o'er, 
On forfeit of my hands, my head, my heart : 
If this will not suffice, it must appear 
That malice bears down truth. And I beseech you 
Wrest once the law T to your authority : 
To do a great right do a little wrong ; 
And curb this cruel villain of his will. 

For. It must not be ; there is no power in Venice 
Can alter a decree established ; 
'Twill be recorded for a precedent ; 
And many an error, by the same example 
Will rush into the state : it cannot be. 

Shy. A Daniel come to judgment ! yea, a Daniel ! 
O wise young judge, how do I honor thee ! 

For. I pray you, let me look upon the bond. 

Shy. Here 'tis, most reverend doctor, here it is. 

For. Shy lock, there 's thrice thy money offered thee. 

Shy. An oath, an oath, I have an oath in heaven: 
Shall I lay perjury upon my soul ? 
No, not for Venice. 

For. Why, this bond is forfeit ; 



300 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

And lawfully by this the Jew may claim 
A pound of flesh, to be by him cut off 
Nearest the merchant's heart : — Be merciful ; 
Take thrice thy money; bid me tear the bond. 

Shy. When it is paid according to the tenor. 
It doth appear, you are a worthy judge ; 
You know the law, your exposition 
Hath been most sound ; I charge you by the law, 
Whereof you are a well-deserving pillar, 
Proceed to judgment : by my soul I swear, 
There is no power in the tongue of man 
To alter me : I stay here on my bond. 

Ant. Most heartily I do beseech the court 
To give the judgment. 

Por. Why then, thus it is: 
You must prepare your bosom for his knife. 

Shy. O noble judge ! O excellent young man ! 

Por. For the intent and purpose of the law 
Hath full relation to the penalty, 
Which here appeareth due upon the bond. 

Shy. 'Tis very true : O wise and upright judge ! 
How much more elder art thou than thy looks I 

Por. Therefore, lay bare your bosom. 

Shy. Ay, his breast : 
So says the bond : — Doth it not noble judge ? — 
Nearest the heart, those are the very words. 

Por. It is so. Are there balances here to weigh 
The flesh ? • 

Shy. I have them ready. 

Por. Have by some surgeon, Shylock, on your charge, 
To stop his wounds, lest he should bleed to death. 

Shy. Is it so nominated in the bond ? 

Por. It is not so expressed ; But what of that ? 
'Twere good you do so much for charity. 

Shy. I cannot find it ; 'tis not in the bond. 

Por. Come, merchant, have you any thing to say ? 

Ant. But little ; I am armed, and well prepared. 
Give me your hand, Bassanio ; fare you well ! 
Grieve not that I am fallen to this for you ; 
For herein fortune shows herself more kind 
Than is her custom : it is still her use, 



SCENES FROM DRAMATIC WRITERS. 301 

To let the wretched man outlive his wealth, 
To view with hollow eye, and wrinkled brow, 
An age of poverty : from which lingering penance 
Of such a misery doth she cut me off. 

Shy. We trifle time ; I pray thee pursue sentence. 

Por. A pound of that same merchant's flesh is thine ; 
The court awards it, and the law doth give it. 

Shy. Most rightful judge ! 

Por. And you must cut this flesh from off his breast ; 
The law allows it, and the court awards it. 

Shy. Most learned judge ! — A sentence ; come, prepare. 

Por. Tarry a little ; — there is something else. — 
This bond doth give thee here no jot of blood, 
The words expressly are a pound of flesh : 
Then take thy bond, take thou thy pound of flesh, 
But, in the cutting it, if thou dost shed 
One drop of Christian blood, thy lands and goods 
Are, by the laws of Venice, confiscate 
Unto the state of Venice. 

Gra. O upright judge ! — Mark, Jew ! — O learned judge ! 

Shy. Is that the law ? 

Por. Thyself shalt see the act : 
For, as thou urgest justice, be assured 
Thou shalt have justice, more than thou desirest. 

Gra. O learned judge ! — Mark, Jew ; — a learned judge ! 

Shy. I take this offer then, — pay the bond thrice, 
And let the Christian go. 

Bass. Here is the money. 

Por. Soft. 
The Jew shall have all justice ; — soft ; — no haste ; — 
He shall have nothing but the penalty. 

Gra. O Jew ! an upright judge, a learned judge ! 

Por. Therefore, prepare thee to cut off the flesh, 
Shed thou no blood , nor cut thou less, nor more, 
But just a pound of flesh : if thou tak'st more, 
Or less, than a just pound, — be it but so much 
As makes it light, or heavy, in the substance, 
Or the division of the twentieth part 
Of one poor scruple, — nay, if the scales do turn 
But in the estimation of a hair, — - 
Thou diest, and all thy goods are confiscate. 



02 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Gra. A second Daniel, a Daniel, Jew ! 
Now, infidel, I have thee on the hip. 

Por. Why doth the Jew pause ? Take thy forfeiture. 

Shy. Give me my principal, and let me go. 

Bass. I have it ready for thee ; here it is. 

Por. He hath refused it in the open court ; 
He shall have merely justice, and his bond. 

Gra. A Daniel, still say I ; a second Daniel ! — 
I thank thee, Jew, for teaching me that word. 

Shy. Shall I not have barely my principal ? 

Por. Thou shalt have nothing but the forfeiture, 
To be so taken at thy peril, Jew. 

Shy. Wby then the devil give him good of it ! 
I '11 stay no longer question. 

Por. Tarry Jew ; 
The law hath yet another hold on you. 
It is enacted in the laws of Venice, — 
If it be proved against an alien, 
That by direct, or indirect attempts, 
He seek the life of any citizen, 
The party 'gainst the which he doth contrive, 
Shall seize one half his goods ; the other half 
Comes to the privy coffer of the state ; 
And the offender's life lies in the mercy 
Of the duke only, 'gainst all other voice. 
In which predicament, I say, thou stand'st. 
Down, therefore, and beg mercy of the duke . 

Duke. That thou shalt see the difference of our spirit, 
I pardon thee thy life before thou ask it : 
For half thy wealth, it is Antonio's ; 
The other half comes to the general state, 
Which humbleness may drive unto a fine. 

Shy. Nay, take my life and all, pardon not that : 
You take my house when you do take the prop 
That doth sustain my house ; you take my life, 
When you do take the means whereby I live. 

Ant. So please my lord the Duke, and all the court, 
To quit the fine for one half of his goods ; 
I am content, so he will let me have 
The other half in use, to render it, 
Upon his death, unto the gentleman 



SCENES FROM DRAMATIC WRITERS. 303 

That lately stole his daughter. 

Dolce. He shall do this ; or else I do recant 
The pardon that I late pronounced here. 

For. Art thou contented, Jew ; what dost thou say ? 

Shy. I am content. 
I pray you give me leave to go from hence : 
I am not well : send the deed after me, 
And I will sign it. 

Duke. Get thee gone, but do it. 

Shakespere. 



THE TWO FOSCARI. 

The Doge and Attendants. 

Att. My lord, the deputation is in waiting; 
But add, that if another hour would better 
Accord with your will, they will make it theirs. 

Doge. To me all hours are like. Let them approach. 

[Exit Attendant. 

An Officer. Prince, I have done your bidding. 

Doge. What command ? 

Officer. A melancholy one — to call the attendance 
Of— 

Doge. True — true — true: I crave your pardon. I 
Begin to fail in apprehension, and 
Wax very old — old almost as my years. 
Till now I fought them off, but they begin 
To overtake me. 

Enter the Deputation, consisting of six of the Signori and 
the Chief of the Ten. 

Doge. Noblemen, your pleasure ! 

Chief of the Ten. In the first place, the council doth 
condole 
With the Doge on his late and private grief. 

Doge. No more — no more of that. 

Chief of the Ten. Will not the duke 
Accept the homage of respect ? 

Doge. I do 
Accept it as 't is given — proceed. 

Chief of the Ten. " The Ten," 



304 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

With a selected giunta from the senate . 
Of twenty-five of the best born patricians, 
Having deliberated on the state 
Of the republic, and the o'erwhelming cares 
Which, at this moment, doubly must oppress 
Your years, so long devoted to your country, 
Have judged it fitting, with all reverence, 
Now to solicit from your wisdom (which 
Upon reflection must accord in this), 
The resignation of the ducal ring, 
Which you have worn so long and venerably : 
And to prove that they are not ungrateful, nor 
Cold to your years and services, they add 
An appanage of twenty hundred golden 
Ducats, to make retirement not less splendid 
Than should become a sovereign's retreat. 

Doge. Did I hear rightly ? 

Chief of the Ten. Need I say again ? 

Doge. No. — Have you done ? 

Chief of the Ten. I have spoken. Twenty-four 
Hours are accorded you to give an answer. 

Doge. I shall not need so many seconds. 

Chief of the Ten. We 
Will now retire. 

Doge. Stay ! Four and twenty hours 
Will alter nothing which I have to say. 

Chief of the Ten. Speak! 

Doge. When I twice before reiterated 
My wish to abdicate, it was refused me : 
And not alone refused, but ye exacted 
An oath from me that I would never more 
Renew this instance. I have sworn to die 
In full exertion of the functions, which 
My country called me here to exercise, 
According to my honour and my conscience — 
I cannot break my oath. 

Chief of the Ten. Reduce us not 
To the alternative of a decree, 
Instead of your compliance. 

Doge. Providence 
Prolongs my days to prove and chasten me ; 



SCENES FROM DRAMATIC WRITERS. 305 

But ye have no right to reproach my length 

Of days, since every hour has been the country's. 

I am ready to lay down my life for her, 

As 1 have laid down dearer things than life : 

But for my dignity — I hold it of 

The whole republic ; when the general will 

Is manifest, then you shall all be answered. 

Chief of the Ten. We grieve for such an answer, but it 
cannot 
Avail you aught. 

Doge. I can submit to all things, 
But nothing will advance ; no, not a moment. 
What you decree — decree. 

Chief of the Ten. Hear you then the last decree, 
Definitive and absolute ! 

Doge. To the point — 
To the point ! I know of old the forms of office, 
And gentle preludes to strong acts — Go on ! 

Chief of the Ten. You are no longer Doge; you are re- 
leased 
From your imperial oath as sovereign ; 
Your ducal robes must be put off : but for 
Your services, the state allots the appanage 
Already mentioned in our former congress. 
Three days are left you to remove from hence, 
Under the penalty to see confiscated 
All your own private fortune. 

Doge. That last clause, 
I am proud to say, would not enrich the treasury. 

Chief of the Ten. Your answer, Duke ! 

Doge. If I could have foreseen that my old age 
Was prejudicial to the state, the chief 
Of the republic never would have shown 
Himself so far ungrateful, as to place 
His own high dignity before his country ; 
But this life having been so many years 
Not useless to that country, I would fain 
Have consecrated my last moments to her. 
But the decree being rendered, I obey. 

Chief of the Ten. If you would have the three days named 
extended, 



306 



THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 



We willingly will lengthen them to eight, 
As sign of our esteem. 

Doge. Not eight hours, signor, 
Nor even eight minutes — There 's the duc^H ring, 
And so 
The Adriatic 's free to wed another. 

Chief of the Ten. Yet go not forth so quickly. 

Doge. I am old, sir, 
And even to move but slowly must begin 
To move betimes. 

Prepare [Pointing to the Tens deputation. 

To part from hence upon the instant. 

Chief of the Ten. Why 
So rashly ? 't will give scandal. 

Doge. Answer that ; [To the Ten. 

It is your province. — Sirs, bestir yourselves : 

[To the servants. 
There is one burthen which I beg you bear 
With care, although 't is past all further harm — 
But I will look to that myself. Byron. 



VENICE PRESERVED. 

First Selection. 

Renault, Jaffier, Pierre, Spinosa, Elliot, Duband, 
Theodore. 

Ren. My friends, 'tis late : are we assembled — all. 

Spi. All— all ! 

Ren. Oh ! you 're men, I find, 
Fit to behold your fate, and meet her summons. 
To-morrow's rising sun must see you all 
Deck'd in your honours. Are the soldiers ready ? 

Pie. All— all ! 

Ben. You, Durand, with your thousand, must possess 
St. Mark's ; you, captain, know your charge already ; 
'Tis to secure the ducal palace : 

e all this done with the least tumult possible, 
Till in each place you post sufficient guards ; 



SCENES FROM DRAMATIC WRITERS. 307 

Then sheathe your swords in every breast you meet. 

Jaff. [aside.']. Oh, reverend cruelty! thrice bloody 
villain ! 

Ren. During this execution, Durand, you 
Must in the midst keep your battalia fast : 
And, Theodore, be sure to plant the cannon 
That may command the streets ; 
This done, we'll give the general alarm, 
Apply petards, and force the ars'nal gates ; 
Then fire the city round in several places, 
Or with our cannon, if it dare resist, 
Batter to ruin. But above all, I charge you, 
Shed blood enough ; spare neither sex nor age, 
Name nor condition : if there lives a senator 
After to-morrow, though the dullest rogue 
That e'er said nothing, we have lost our ends. 
If possible, let's kill the very name 
Of senator, and bury it in blood. 

Jaff. [aside. ~] Merciless, horrid slave ! Ay, blood 
enough ! 
Shed blood enough, old Renault ! how thou charm'st me. 

Ren. But one thing more, and then farewell, till fate 
Join us again, or separate us for ever : 
But let us all remember, 
We wear no common cause upon our swords. 
Let each man think that on his single virtue 
Depends the good and fame of all the rest. 
Eternal honour or perpetual infamy. 
You droop, sir. [To Jaffier. 

Jaff. No : with the most profound attention 
I've heard it all, and wonder at thy virtue. 

Ren. Let's consider 
That we destroy oppression — avarice ; 
A people nursed up equally with vices 
And loathsome lusts, which nature most abhors, 
And such as without shame, she cannot suffer. 

Jaff. [aside.~\ O Belvidera, take me to thy arms, 
And show me where 's my peace, for I have lost it. 

[Exit. 

Ren. Without the least remorse, then let's resolve 



308 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

With fire and sword t' exterminate these tyrants, 
Under whose weight this wretched country labours. 

Pie. And may those powers above that are propitious 
To gallant minds, record this cause and bless it ! 

Ren. Thus happy, thus secure of all we wish for, 
Should there, my friends, be found among us one 
False to this glorious enterprise, what fate, 
What vengeance, were enough for such a villain ? 

All. Death here without repentance, hell hereafter. 

Ren. Let that be my lot, if, as here I stand, 
Listed by fate among her darling sons, 
Though I had one only brother, dear by all 
The strictest ties of nature, 
Join'd in this cause, and had but ground for fear 
He meant foul play, may this right hand drop from me, 
If I'd not hazard all my future peace, 
And stab him to the heart before you? Who 
Who would do less ? Would'st thou not, Pierre, the same ? 

Pie. You 've singled me, sir, out for this hard question, 
As if 't were started only for my sake ; 
Am I the thing you fear ? Here, here's my bosom : 
Search it with all your swords. Am I a traitor ? 

Ren. No ; but I fear your late commended friend 
Is little less. Come, sirs, 'tis now no time 
To trifle with our safety. Where's this Jaffler ? 

Spi. He left the room just now, in strange disorder. 

Ren. Nay, there is danger in him : I observed him ; 
During the time I took for explanation, 
He was transported from most deep attention 
To a confusion which he could not smother. 
What 's requisite for safety must be done 
With speedy execution ; he remains 
Yet in our power ; I, for my own part, wear 
A dagger. 

Pie. Well ? [Goes to Renault. 

Ren. And I could wish it. 

Pie. Where ? 

Ren. Buried in his heart. 

Pie. Away ! We're yet all friends. 
No more of this ; 't will breed ill blood among us. 



SCENES FROM DRAMATIC WRITERS. 309 

Spi. Let us all draw our swords, and search the house ; 
Pull him from the dark hold where he sits brooding 
O'er his cold fears, and each man kill his share of him. 

Pie. Who talks of killing ? Who 's he '11 shed the 
blood 
That's dear to me ? Is 't you, or you, sir ? 

[Passing from left to right. 
What not one speak ? How you stand gaping all 
On your grave oracle, your wooden god there! 
Yet not a word ? Then, sir, I'll tell you a secret: 
Suspicion's but at best a coward's virtue. [To Renault. 

Ben. A coward? 

Pie. Put — put up thy sword, old man ; 
Thy hand shakes at it. Come, let's heal this breach ; 
I am too hot : we may yet live all friends. 

Spi. Till we are safe, our friendship cannot be so. 

Pie. Again, Who's that ? 

Spi. 'Twasl. 

The. And I. 

Ren. And I. • 

Spi. And all. 
Let's die like men, and not be sold like slaves. 

Pie. One such word more, by heaven I'll to the 
senate, 
And hang ye all, like dogs, in clusters. 
Why peep your coward swords half out their sheaths ? 
Why do you not all brandish them like mine ? 
You fear to die, and yet dare talk of killing. 

Ren. Go to the senate, and betray us — haste ! 
Secure thy wretched life ; we fear to die 
Less than thou dar'st be honest. 

Pie. That's rank falsehood. 
Fearst thou not death ? Fie — there a knavish itch 
In that salt blood, an utter foe to smarting ! 

[Exit Renault. 
Away — disperse all to your several charges, 
And meet to-morrow where your honour calls you. 
I'll bring that man whose blood you so much thirst for ; 
And you shall see him venture for you fairly. 
Hence — hence — I say. 



310 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Spi. I fear we have been to blame, 
And done too much. 

The. 'Twas too far urged against the man you love. 

All. Forgive us, gallant friend. 

Pie. Nay, now you've found 
The way to melt and cast me as you will. 
O what a dangerous precipice have we 'scaped ? 
How near a fall was all we'd been long building ! 
What an eternal blot had stained our glories, 
If one, the bravest and the best of men, 
Had fallen a sacrifice to rash suspicion, 
Butchered by those whose cause he came to cherish ! 
O could you know him all, as I have known him — 
How good he is, how just, how true, how brave, 
You would not leave this place till you had seen him, 
And gained remission for the worst of follies. 
Come but to-morrow, all your doubts shall end, 
And to your loves me better recommend, 
That I've preserved your fame and saved my friend. 

Otway. 



VENICE PRESERVED. 

Second Selection. 
The Duke op Venice and Senators. Enter Officer. 

Duke. Speak, there ! What disturbance ? 

Offi. A prisoner have the guards seized in the street 
Who says he comes to inform this reverend council 
About the present danger. 

Enter Officer, Jafpier, Captain, and Guards. 

All. Give him entrance. [Exit Officer.] Well, who 
are you ? 

Jaff. A villain! 
Would every man that hears me 
Would deal so honestly, and own his title ! 

Duke. 'Tis rumoured that a plot has been contrived 
Against the state, and you've a share in't, too. 



SCENES FROM DRAMATIC WRITERS. 311 

If you're a villain, to redeem your honour, 
Unfold the truth, and be restored with mercy. 

Jaff. Think not, that I to save my life came hither ; 
I know its value better ; but in pity 
To all those wretches, whose unhappy dooms 
Are fixed and sealed. You see me here before you, 
The sworn and covenanted foe of Venice: 
But use me as my dealings may deserve, 
And I may prove a friend. 

Duke. The slave capitulates ; 
Give him the tortures. 

Jaff. That you dare not do ; 
Your fears wont let you, nor the longing itch 
To hear a story, which you dread the truth of : 
Truth, which the fear of smart shall ne'er get from me. 
Cowards are scared with threatenings ; boys are whipped 
Into confessions ; but a steady mind 
Acts of itself, ne'er asks the body counsel. 
Give him the tortures ! Name but such a thing 
Again, by Heaven, I '11 shut these lips for ever ! 
Nor all your racks, your engines, or your wheels, 
Shall force a groan away that you may guess at ! 

Duke. Name your conditions. 

Jaff. For myself, full pardon, 
Besides the lives of two -and- twenty friends, 
Whose names I have enrolled. — Nay, let their crimes 
Be ne'er so monstrous, I must have the oaths 
And sacred promise of this reverend council, 
That, in a full assembly of the senate, 
The thing I ask be ratified. Swear this, 
And I '11 unfold the secrets of your danger. 

Duke. We swear. 

Jaff. Then here's the list, and with it the full disclosure 

[Delivers two papers to the Officer, who delivers them to 
the Duke.~] 

Of all that threaten you. 

Now Fate, thou hast caught me ! 

Duke. Give order that all diligent search be made 
To seize these men, their characters are public. 
The paper intimates then? rendezvous 



312 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

To be at the house of the famed Grecian courtesan 
Called Aquilina ; see the place secured. 
You, Jaffier, must with patience bear till morning 
To be our prisoner. 

Jaff. Would the chains of death 
Had bound me fast, ere I had known this minute ! 

Duke. Captain, withdraw your prisoner. 

Jaff. Sir [to Officer], if possible, 
Lead me where my own thoughts themselves may lose me; 
Where I may doze out what I 've left of life ; — 
Forget myself, and this day's guilt and falsehood. 
Cruel remembrance ! how shall I appease thee ! 

[Exit, guarded. 

Offi. [Withouf] More traitors! Room, room; make 
room there ! 

Duke. How's this ? 
The treason's 
Already at the doors ! 

Enter Officer and Captain. 

Offi. My lords, more traitors ! 
Seized in the very act of consultation ; 
Furnished with arms and instruments of mischief.— 
Bring in the prisoner ! 

Enter Pierre, in chains, 

Pie. You, my lords and fathers 
(As you are pleased to call yourselves) of Venice, 
If you sit here to guide the course of justice, 
Why these disgraceful chains upon the limbs 
That have so often laboured in your service ? 
Are these the wreaths of triumph you bestow 
On those that bring you conquest home, and honours ? 

Duke. Go on ! you shall be heard, sir. 

Pie. Are these the trophies I've deserved for 
fighting 
Your battles with confederated powers ? 
When winds and seas conspired to overthrow you, 
And brought the fleets of Spain to your own harbours ; 
When you, great Duke, shrunk trembling in your palace, 



SCENES FROM DRAMATIC WRITERS. 313 

Stepped not I forth, and taught your loose Venetians 
The task of honour and the way to greatness ? 
Raised you from your capitulating fears 
To stipulate the terms of sued-for peace ? 
And this is my recompense ! If I'm a traitor, 
Produce my charge ; or show the wretch that's base 
And brave enough to tell me I 'm a traitor ? 

Duke. Know you one Jaffier ? 

Pie. Yes, and know his virtue. 
His justice, truth, his general worth and sufferings 
From a hard father, taught me first to love him. 

Duke. See him brought forth. 

Enter Captain, with Jaffier in chains. 

Pie. My friend, too, bound ! nay, then, 
Our fate has conquered us, and we must fall." 8 
Why droops the man, whose welfare's so much mine, 
They're but one thing. These rev'rend tyrants, Jaffier, 
Call us traitors. Art thou one, my brother ? 

Jaff. To thee I am the falsest, veriest slave, 
That e'er betrayed a generous, trusting friend, 
And gave up honour to be sure of ruin. 
All our fair hopes, which morning was t' have crowned, 
Has this cursed tongue o'erthrown. 

Pie. So, then, all's over : 
Venice has lost her freedom, I my life. 
No more ! 

Duke, Say, will you make confession 
Of your vile deeds, and trust the senate's mercy ? 

Pie. Cursed be your senate, cursed your constitution ! 
The curse of growing factions and divisions 
Still vex your councils, shake your public safety, 
And make the robes of government you wear 
Hateful to you, as these base chains to me. 

Duke. Pardon, or death ! 

Pie. Death ! honourable death ! 

Duke. Break up the council. Captain, guard your pri- 
soners. 
Jaffier, you're free ; but these must wait for judgment. 

[Exit Duke and Senators. 
v 



314 



THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 



Pie. Come, where's my dungeon ? Lead me to my 
straw : 
It will not be the first time I 've lodged hard, 
To do your senate service. 

J (iff. Hold, one moment. 

Pie. Who's he disputes the judgment of the senate ? 
Presumptuous rebel ! on — [Strikes Jaffier. 

Jaff. By Heaven, you stir not ! 
I must be heard ! I must have leave to speak. 
Thou hast disgraced me, Pierre, by a vile blow : 
Had not a dagger done thee nobler justice ? 
But use me as thou wilt, thou canst not wrong me, 
For I am fallen beneath the basest injuries ; 
Yet, look upon me with an eye of mercy, 
And, as there dwells a godlike nature in thee, 
Listen with mildness to my supplications. 

Pie. What whining monk art thou ? what holy cheat, 
That would'st encroach upon my credulous ears, 
And cant'st thus vilely ! Hence ! I know thee not ! 

Jaff. Not know me, Pierre ? 

Pie. No, know thee not. What art thou ? 

Jaff. Jaffier, thy friend, — thy once-loved, valued friend; 
Though now deservedly scorned, and used most hardly. 

Pie. Thou, Jaffier ! thou my once-loved, valued friend ! 
By heavens, thou liest ! The man so called my friend 
Was generous, honest, faithful, just, and valiant ; 
Noble in mind, and in his person lovely ; 
Dear to my eyes, and tender to my heart ; 
But thou, a wretched, base, false, worthless coward, 
Poor even in soul, loathsome in thy aspect ; 
All eyes must shun thee, and all hearts detest thee. 
Prithee, avoid, nor longer cling thus round me, 
Like something baneful, that my nature's chilled at. 

Jaff. I have not wronged thee ; by these tears I have not. 

Pie. Hast thou not wronged me, dar'st thou call thyself 
That once-loved, honest, valued friend of mine, 
And swear thou hast not wronged me ? Whence these 

chains ? 
Whence the vile death, which I may meet this moment ? 
Whence this dishonour, but from thee, thou false one ? 



SCENES FROM DRAMATIC WRITERS. 315 

Jaff. All's true ; yet grant one thing, and I 've done 
asking. 

Pie. What's that ? 

Jaff. To take thy life on such conditions 
The council have proposed : thou and thy friends 
May yet live long, and to he better treated. 

Pie. Life ! ask my life ! confess ! record myself 
A villain, for the privilege to breathe, 
And carry up and down this cursed city 
A discontented and repining spirit, 
Burdensome to itself, a few years longer ! 
To lose it, may be, at last in a lewd quarrel 
For some new friend, treacherous and false as thou art ! 
No ; this vile world and I have long been jangling, 
And cannot part on better terms than now, 
When only men like thee are fit to live in 't. 

Jaff. By all that's just — 

Pie. Swear by some other power, 
For thou hast broke that sacred oath too lately. 

Jaff. Then by that pain I merit, I '11 not leave thee 
Till, to thyself, at last thou'rt reconciled, 
However thy resentments deal with me. 

Pie. Not leave me ! 

Jaff. No ; thou shalt force me from thee. 
Use me reproachfully, and like a slave ; 
Tread on me, buffet me, heap wrongs on wrongs 
On my poor head ; I '11 bear it all with patience, 
Shall weary out thy most unfriendly cruelty ; 
Lie at thy feet [Falls on his knees] , and kiss them, though 

they spurn me ; 
Till, wounded by my sufferings, thou relent, 
And raise me to thy arms with dear forgiveness. 

Pie. Art thou not — 

Jaff. What? 

Pie. A traitor ! 

Jaff Yes. 

Pie. A villain ! 

Jaff. Granted. 

Pie. A coward, a most scandalous coward ; 
Spiritless, void of honour ; one who has sold 
Thy everlasting fame for shameless life ! 



316 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Jaff. [Rising. ~\ All, all, and more, — much more, my 
faults are numberless. 

Pie. And wouldst thou have me live on terms like thine ? 
Base, as thou'rt false — 

Jaff. [Returning, .] No, 'tis to me that's granted ; 
The safety of thy life was all I aimed at, 
In recompense for faith and trust so broken. 

Pie. I scorn it more, because preserved by thee ; 
And, as when first my foolish heart took pity 
On thy misfortunes, sought thee in thy miseries, 
Relieved thy wants, and raised thee from the state 
Of wretchedness, in which thy fate had plunged thee, 
To rank thee in my list of noble friends ; 
All I received, in surety for thy truth, 
Were unregarded oaths, and this, this dagger, 
Given with a worthless pledge, thou since hast stolen : 
So I restore it back to thee again, 
Swearing by all those powers which thou hast violated, 
Never, from this cursed hour, to hold communion, 
Friendship, or interest with thee, though our years 
Were to exceed those limited the world. 
Take it. [Throws down the dagger.'] Farewell, for now I 
owe thee nothing. 

Jaff. Say thou wilt live, then. 

Pie. For my life, dispose it 
Just as thou wilt, because 'tis what I 'm tired with. 

Jaff. O Pierre ! 

Pie. No more. [Going. 

Jaff. My eyes wont lose the sight of thee, [Following. 
But languish after thine, and ache with gazing. 

Pie. Leave me. Nay, then, — thus, thus I throw thee 
from me ; 
And curses, great as is thy falsehood, catch thee ! 

Otway. 



WERNER. 

Enter Count Siegendorf, Ulric his son, and Attendant. 

Atten. A stranger to wait on 
Your excellency. 



SCENES FROM DRAMATIC WRITERS. 317 

Sieg. Who ? 

Atten. He gave no name. 

Sieg. Admit him, ne'ertheless. 

[The attendant introduces Gabor, afterwards exit. 
Ah! 

Gabor. 'T is, then, Werner ! 

Sieg. [Haughtily.'] The same you knew, sir, by that 
name ; and you ! 

Gabor. [Looking rounds] I recognise you both: father 
and son, 
It seems. Count, I have heard that you, or yours, 
Have lately been in search of me: I am here. 

Sieg. I have sought you, and have found you : you are 
charged, 
(Your own heart may inform you why), with such 
A crime as — [He pauses. 

Gabor. Give it utterance, and then 
I'll meet the consequences. 

Sieg. You shall do so — 
Unless — 

Gabor. First, who accuses me ? 

Sieg. All things 
If not all men : the universal rumour — 
My own presence on the spot — the place — the time — 
And every speck of circumstance unite 
To fix the blot on you. 

Gabor. And on me only} 
Pause ere you answer : is no other name 
Save mine, stained in this business ? 

Sieg. Trifling villain ! 
Who play'st with thine own guilt ! Of all that breathe 
Thou best dost know the innocence of him 
'Gainst whom thy breath would blow thy bloody slander ; 
But I will talk no further with a wretch, 
Further than justice asks. Answer at once, 
And without quibbling, to my charge. 

Gabor. 'T is false ! 

Sieg. Who says so ? 

Gabor. I. 

Sieg. And how disprove it ? 

Gabor. By the presence of the murderer. 



318 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Sieg. Name him ! 

Qabor. He may have more names than one. Your lord- 
ship had so 
Once on a time. 

Sieg. If you mean me, I dare 
Your utmost. 

Gabor. You may do so, and in safety ! 
I know the assassin. 

Sieg. Where is he ? 

Gabor. {Pointing to Ulric] Beside you ! 

Ulric rushes forward to attach Gabor ; Siegendorf 
interposes. 

Sieg. Liar and fiend ! but you shall not be slain ; 
These walls are mine, and you are safe within them. 

[He turns to Ulric. 
Ulric, repel this calumny, as I 
Will do. I avow it is a growth so monstrous, 
I could not deem it earth-born : but be calm ; 
It will refute itself. But touch him not. 

[Ulric endeavours to compose himself. 

Gabor. Look at him. Count, and then hear me. 

Sieg. [First to Gabor, and then looking at Ulric] lhear 
thee. 
Heavens ! you look — 

Ulric. How ? 

Sieg. As on that dread night 
When we met in the garden. 

Ulric. [Composes himself .~\ It is nothing. 

Gabor. Count, you are bound to hear me. I came hither 
Not seeking you, but sought. When I knelt down 
Amidst the people in the church, I dreamed not 
To find the beggared Werner in the seat 
Of senators and princes ; but you have called me, 
And we have met. 

Sieg. Go on, sir. * 

Gabor. Ere I do so, 
Allow me to inquire who profited 
By Stralenheim's death ? Was 't I — as poor as ever ; 
And poorer by suspicion on my name ! 
The baron lost in that last outrage neither 



SCENES FROM DRAMATIC WRITERS. 319 

Jewels nor gold ; his life alone was sought, — 
A life which stood between the claims of others 
To honours and estates scarce less than princely. 

Sieg. These hints, as vague as vain, attach no less 
To me than to my son. 

Gabor. I can't help that. 
But let the consequence alight on him 
Who feels himself the guilty one amongst us. 
I speak of you, Count Siegendorf, because 
I know you innocent, and deem you just. 
But ere I can proceed — dare you protect me ? 
Dare you command me ? 

Siegendorf first holes at the Hungarian, and then at 
Ulric, who has unbuckled his sabre, and is drawing 
lines with it on the fioor — still in its sheath. 

Ulric. {Looks at his father and says'] Let the man go on 1 

Gabor. I am unarmed, count — bid your son lay down 
His sabre. 

Ulric. {Offers it to him contemptuously '.] Take it. 

Gabor. No, sir, 'tis enough 
That we are both unarmed. — I would not choose 
To wear a steel that may be stained with more 
Blood than came there in battle. 

Ulric. {Casts the sabre from him in contempt."] 
It — or some 

Such other weapon, in my hands — spared yours 
Once when disarmed and at my mercy. 

Gabor. True-*- 
I have not forgotten it: you spared me for 
Your own especial purpose — to sustain 
An ignominy not my own. 

Ulric. Proceed. 
The tale is doubtless worthy the relater. 
But is it of my father to hear further ? {To Siegendorf. 

Sieg. {Takes his son by the hand.~\ My son ! I know my 
own innocence and doubt not 
Of yours — but I have promised this man patience ; 
Let him continue. 

Gabor. I accuse no man — save in my defence. 
You, count, have made yourself accuser — judge : 



320 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Your hall 's my court, your heart is my tribunal. 
Be just, and I '11 be merciful ! 

Sieg. You merciful ! 
You ! base calumniator ! 
Gabor. I. 'Twill rest 
With me at last to be so. You concealed me — 
In secret passages known to yourself, 
You said, and to none else. At dead of night, 
Weary with watching in the dark, and dubious 
Of tracing back my way, I saw a glimmer, 
Through distant crannies, of a twinkling light : 
I followed it, and reached a door — a secret 
Portal — which opened to the chamber, where, 
With cautious hand and slow, having first undone 
As much as made a crevice of the fastening, 
I looked through and beheld a purple bed, 
And on it Stralenheim 

Sieg. Asleep. And yet 
You slew him ! — Wretch ! 

Gabor. He was already slain, 
And bleeding like a sacrifice. My own 
Blocd became ice. 

Sieg. But he was all alone ! 
You saw none else ? You did not see the — 

Gabor. No, [He pauses from agitation. 

He, whom you dare not name, nor even I 
Scarce dare to recollect, was not then in 
The chamber. 

Sieg. [To Ulric] Then, my boy ! thou art guiltless 
still— 
Thou bad'st me say I was so once — oh, now 
Do thou as much ! 

Gabor. Be patient ! I can not 
Recede now, though it shake the very walls 
Which frown above us. You remember — or 
If not, your son does — that the locks were changed 
Beneath his chief inspection, on the morn 
Which led to this same night: how he had entered 
He best knows — but within an antechamber, 
The door of which was half ajar, I saw 
A man who washed his bloody hands, and oft 



SCENES FROM DRAMATIC WRITERS. 321 

With stern and anxious glance gazed back upon 
The bleeding body — but it moved no more. 

Sieg. Oh ! God of fathers ! 

Gabor. I beheld his features 
As I see yours — but yours they were not, though 
Resembling them — behold them in Count Ulric's ! 

Sieg. This is so — 

Gabor. [Interrupting him.'] Nay, but hear me to the end ! 
Now you must do so. I conceived myself 
Betrayed by you and him (for now I saw 
There was some tie between you) into this 
Pretended den of refuge, to become 
The victim of your guilt ; and my first thought 
Was vengeance : but, though armed with a short poniard 
(Having left my sword without), I was no match 
For him at any time, as had been proved 
That morning — either in address or force. 
I turned and fled — i' the dark : chance rather than 
Skill made me gain the secret door of the hall, 
And thence the chamber where you slept : if I 
Had found you waking, heaven alone can tell 
What vengeance and suspicion might have prompted ; 
But ne'er slept guilt as Werner slept that night. 

Sieg. And yet I had horrid dreams ! and such brief sleep, 
Then stars had not gone down when [ awoke. 
Why didst thou spare me ? I dreamt of my father — 
And now my dream is out ! 

Gabor. 'Tis not my fault, 
If I have read it. — Well, I fled and hid me — 
Chance led me here after so many moons — 
And showed me Werner in Count Siegendorf ! 
Werner, whom I had sought in huts in vain, 
Inhabited the palace of a sovereign ! 
You sought me and have found me — now you know 
My secret, and may weigh its worth. 

Sieg. [After a pause. .] Indeed ! 

Gabor. Is it revenge or justice which inspires 
Your meditation ? 

Sieg. Neither. I was weighing 
The value of your secret. 

Gabor. You shall know it 

?5 



322 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

At once ; — When you were poor, and I, though poor, 

Rich enough to relieve such poverty 

As might have envied mine, I offered you 

My purse — you would not share it : — I'll be franker 

With you : you are wealthy, noble, trusted by 

The imperial powers — you understand me ? 

Sieg. Yes. 

Gabor. Not quite. You think me venal, and scarce true 
'Tis no less true, however, that my fortunes 
Have made me both at present. You shall aid me ; 
I would have aided you — and also have 
Been somewhat damaged in my name to save 
Yours and your son's. Weigh well what I have said. 

Byron. 



323 



HUMOROUS PIECES. 



ADDEESS TO AN EGYPTIAN MUMMY. 

Extracted, hj permission of Henry Colburn, Esq., from the late 
Horace Smith's " Gaieties and Gravities." 

And thou hast walked about (how strange a story!) 
In Thebes' street three thousand years ago ; 

When the Memnonium was in all its glory, 
And Time had not begun to overthrow 

Those temples, palaces, and piles stupendous, 

Of which the very ruins are tremendous. 

Speak ! for thou long enough hast acted dummy, — 
Thou hast a tongue, come, let us hear its tune ; 

Thou 'rt standing on thy legs, above ground, Mummy ! 
Revisiting the glimpses of the moon, 

Not like thin ghosts or disembodied creatures, 

But with thy bones, and flesh, and limbs, and features. 

Tell us, for doubtless thou canst recollect, 

To whom should we assign the Sphinx's fame ? 

Was Cheops or Cephrenes architect, 

Of either pyramid that bears his name ? 

Is Pompey's Pillar really a misnomer ? 

Had Thebes a hundred gates, as sung by Homer ? 

Perhaps thou wert a mason, and forbidden 
By oath, to tell the mysteries of thy trade ; 

Then say what secret melody was hidden 

In Memnon's statue, which at sun-rise played ? 

Perhaps thou wert a priest, and hast been dealing 

In human blood, and horrors past revealing. 



324 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Perchance that very hand, now pinioned flat, 

Has hob-a-nobbed with Pharaoh, glass to glass; 

Or dropped a halfpenny in Homer's hat, 

Or doffed thine own to let Queen Dido pass, 

Or held, by Solomon's own invitation, 

A torch at the great temple's dedication. 

I need not ask thee if that hand, when armed, 
Has any Roman soldier mauled or knuckled, 

For thou wert dead and buried, and embalmed, 
Ere Romulus and Remus had been suckled! 

Antiquity appears to have begun, 

Long after thy primeval race was run. 

Thou couldst develop, if that withered tongue 

Might tell us what those sightless orbs have seen, 

How the world looked when it was fresh and young, 
And the great deluge still had left it green ; 

Or was it then so old that history's pages 

Contained no record of its early ages ? 

Still silent, incommunicative elf ! 

Art sworn to secresy ? then keep thy vows ; 
But prythee tell us something of thyself, 

Reveal the secrets of thy prison-house ! 
Since in the world of spirits thou hast slumbered, 
"What thou hast seen, what strange adventures numbered ? 

Since first thy form was in this box extended, 

We have, above-ground, seen some strange mutations ; 

The Roman empire has begun and ended, 

New worlds have risen — we have lost old nations — 

And countless kings have into dust been humbled, 

"While not a fragment of thy flesh has crumbled. 

Didst thou not hear the pother o'er thy head, 
When the great Persian conqueror, Cambyses, 

Marched armies o'er thy tomb with thundering tread, 
O'erthrew Osiris, Orus, Apis, I sis, 

And shook the pyramids with fear and wonder, 

When the gigantic Memnon fell asunder ? 



HUMOROUS PIECES. 325 

If the tomb's secrets may not be confessed, 

The nature of thy private life unfold : 
A heart has throbbed beneath that leathern breast, 

i\.nd tears adown the dusty cheek have rolled, 
Have children climbed those knees, and kissed that face ? 
What was thy name and station, age and race ? 

Statue of flesh — Immortal of the dead ! 

Imperishable type of evanescence ! 
Posthumous man, who quitt'st thy narrow bed, 

And standest undecayed within our presence, 
Thou wilt hear nothing till the judgment morning, 
When the great trump shall thrill thee with its warning ! 

Why should this worthless tegument endure, 

If its undying guest be lost for ever ? 
O let us keep the soul embalmed and pure 

In living virtue ; that, when both must sever, 
Although corruption may our frame consume, 
The immortal spirit in the skies may bloom ! 

Horace Smith. 



BULLUM v. BOATUM. 

There were two farmers ; farmer A. and farmer B. 
Farmer A. was seised or possessed of a bull ; farmer B. was 
seised or possessed of a ferry-boat. Now the owner of the 
ferry-boat, having made his boat fast to a post on shore, 
with a piece of hay, twisted rope-fashion, or, as we say, 
vulgo vocato, a hayband ; after he had made his boat fast to 
a post on shore (as it was very natural for a hungry man 
to do), he went up town to dinner : farmer A.'s bull (as it 
was very natural for a hungry bull to do), came down town 
to look for a dinner ; and observing, discovering, seeing, 
and spying out, some turnips in the bottom of the ferry- 
boat, the bull scrambled into the ferry-boat — he ate up the 
turnips, and, to make an end of his meal, fell to work upon 
the hayband. The boat, being eaten from its moorings, 
floated down the river with the bull in it : it struck against 
a rock, beat a hole in the bottom of the boat, and tossed 



♦326 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

the bull overboard. Whereupon, the owner of the bull 
brought an action against the boat, for running away with 
the bull. The owner of the boat brought his action against 
the bull, for running away with the boat. And thus notice 
of trial was given, Bullum v. Boatum, and Boatum 
v. Bullum. 

The counsel for the bull began with saying, — " My lord, 
and you, gentlemen of the jury, we are counsel in this 
cause for the bull. We are indicted for running away with 
the boat. Now T , my lord, we have heard of running horses, 
but never of running bulls before. Now, my lord, the 
bull could no more run away with the boat than a man in 
a coach may be said to run away with the horses : there- 
fore, my lord, how can we punish what is not punishable ? 
How can we eat what is not eatable ? or How can we drink 
what is not drinkable ? or, as the law says, How can we 
think what is not thinkable? Therefore, my lord, as we are 
counsel in this cause for the bull, if the jury should bring 
the bull in guilty, the jury would be guilty of a bull." 

The counsel for the boat observed, That the bull should 
be non-suited, because in his declaration, he had not speci- 
fied what color he was of: for thus wisely and thus 
learnedly spoke the counsel : — " My lord, if the bull was 
of no color, he must be of some color ; and if he was of 
no color, what color could the bull be of ?" I overruled 
this motion myself, by observing the bull was a white bull, 
and that white is no color : besides, as I told my brethren, 
they should not trouble their heads to talk of color in the 
law, for the law can color anything. This cause being 
afterwards left to a reference, upon the award, both bull 
and boat were acquitted, it being proved that the tide of 
the river carried them both away ; upon which I gave it as 
my opinion, that, as the tide of the river carried both bull 
and boat away, both bull and boat had a good action against 
the water-bailiff. 

My opinion being taken, an action was issued ; and upon 
the traverse, this point of the law arose ; How, wherefore, 
and whether, why, when, and what, whatsoever, whereas, 
and whereby, as the boat was not a compos mentis evidence, 
how could an oath be administered ? That point was soon 



HUMOROUS PIECES. 327 

settled by Boatum's attorney declaring, that for his client 
he would swear anything. 

The water-baliff's charter was then read, taken out of 
the original record in true law Latin ; which set forth in 
their declaration, that they were carried away by the tide of 
flood, or by the tide of ebb. The charter of the water- 
bailiff was as follows : " Aquae bailiffi est magistratus in 
choici, sapor omnibus fishibus, qui habuerunt finnos et 
scalos, claws, shells, et talos, qui swimmare in freshibus^ 
vel saltibus riveris, lakis, pondis, canalibus et well-boats, 
sive oysteri, prawni, whitini, shrimpi, turbutus solus •" i. e. 
not turbots alone, but turbots and soles, both together. 
But now comes the nicety of the law, for the law is as nice 
as a new-laid egg. Bullum and Boatum mentioned both 
ebb and flood, to avoid quibbling ; but, it being proved 
that they were carried away neither by the tide of flood, 
nor by the tide of ebb, but exactly on the top of high 
water, they were nonsuited ; but such was the lenity of the 
court, that, upon paying all costs, they were allowed to 
begin again de novo. 

G. A. Stevens. 



DANIEL v. DISHCLOUT. 

We shall now consider the law, as our laws are very 
considerable, both in bulk and number, according as the 
statutes declare ; considerandi, considerando, consideran- 
dum, and not to be meddled with by those that don't 
understand 'em. Law always expresses itself in true 
grammatical precision, never confounding moods, cases, or 
genders, except indeed when a woman happens accidentally 
to be slain, then the verdict is always brought in Man- 
slaughter. The essence of law is altercation ; for the law 
can altercate, fulminate, deprecate, irritate, and go on at 
any rate. The quintessence of the law has, according to 
its name, five parts. The first is the beginning or in- 
cipiendum ; the second, the uncertainty or dubitandum ; the 
third, delay or puzzliendum ; fourthly, replication without 
endum ; and fifthly, monstrum et horrendum ; all which 
are exemplified in the following case of Daniel against 



328 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Dishclout. Daniel was groom in the same family wherein 
Dishclout was cookmaid ; and Daniel, returning home one 
day fuddled, he stooped down to take a sop out of the 
dripping-pan ; Dishclout pushed him into the dripping-pan, 
which spoiled his clothes ; and he was advised to bring 
his action against the cookmaid ; the pleadings of which 
were as follow. The first person who spoke was Mr. Ser- 
jeant Snuffle. He began, saying, " My lo'd, since I have 
the honour to be pitched upon to open this cause to your 
lo'dship, I shall not impertinently presume to take up any 
of your lo'dship's time by a round-about circumlocutory 
manner of speaking or talking, quite foreign to the pur- 
pose, and not any way relating to the matter in hand, I 
shall, I will, I design to show what damages my client 
has sustained hereupon, whereupon, and thereupon. Now, 
my lo'd, my client being a servant in the same family with 
Dishclout, and not being at board wages, imagined he had 
a right to the fee-simple of the dripping-pan, therefore he 
made an attempt on the sop with his right hand, which 
the defendant replevied with her left, tripped us up, and 
tumbled us into the dripping-pan. Now, in ' Broughton's 
Reports,' Slack v. Smallwood, it is said, primus strocus, 
sine jocus, absolutus est provocus (i.e. the first stroke, with- 
out joke, gives the provoke). Now, who gave the primus 
strocus, who gave the first offence ? Why the cook, she 
brought the dripping-pan there ; for, my lo'd, though we will 
allow, if we had not been there, we couldn't have been 
thrown down there ; yet, my lo'd, if the dripping-pan had 
not been there for us to have tumbled down into, we could 
not have tumbled into the dripping-pan." 

The next counsel on the same side began with, "My 
lud, he who makes use of many words to no purpose has 
not much to say for himself, therefore, I shall come to the 
point at once; at once and immediately shall I come to 
the point. My client was in liquor ; the liquor in him 
serving an ejectment upon his understanding, common 
sense was nonsuited, and he was a man beside himself; 
as Dr. Biblibus declares, in his dissertation upon Bumpers, 
in the 139th fol. vol. of the Abridgment of the Statutes, 
p. 1286, where he says, that a drunken man is homo du- 
plicans, or a double man ; not only because he sees things 



HUMOROUS PIECES. 329 

double, but also because he is not as he should be, profecto 
ipse he; but is as he should not be, defecto tipse he." 

The counsel on the other side rose up gracefully, playing 
with his ruffles prettily, and tossing the ties of his wig 
about emphatically. He began with, " My lud, and you 
gem'men of the jury, I humbly do conceive, I have the 
authority to declare, that I am counsel in this case for the 
defendant ; therefore, my lud, I shall not nourish away in 
words ; words are no more than filigree work. Some 
people may think them an embellishment ; but to me it is 
a matter of astonishment, how any one can be so imper- 
tinent, to the detriment of all rudiment. But, my lud, 
this is not to be looked at through the medium of right 
and wrong; for the law knows no medium ; and right and 
wrong are but its shadows. Now, in the first place, they 
have called a kitchen my client's premises. Now a kitchen 
is nobody's premises ; a kitchen is not a ware-house nor 
a wash-house, a brew-house nor a bake-house, an inn-house 
nor an out-house, nor a dwelling-house ; no, my lud, 'tis 
absolutely and bona fide neither more or less than a 
kitchen, or as the law more classically expresses it, a 
kitchen is, camera necessaria pro usus cookare ; cum sauce- 
pannis, stew-pannis, scullero, dressero, coal-holo, stovis, 
smoak-jacko ; pro roastandum, boilandum, fryandum, et 
plum-pudding-andum mixandum ; pro turtle -soupos, calves- 
head-ashibus, cum calipee et calepashibus ; but we shall 
not avail ourselves of an alibi, but admit of the existence 
of a cook-maid. Now, my lud, we shall take it upon a 
new ground, and beg a new trial ; for as they have cur- 
tailed our name from plain Mary into Moll, I hope the 
court will not admit of this ; for if the court were to allow 
of mistakes, what would the law do ? For when the law 
don't find mistakes, it is the business of the law to make 
them." 

Therefore, the court allowed them the liberty of a new 
trial ; for the law is our liberty, and it is happy for us we 
have the liberty to go to law. 

G. A. Stevens. 



330 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 



DRUNKEN POLITENESS. 

Centric in London noise and London folly, 
Proud Covent Garden blooms in smoky glory ; 
For chairmen, coffee-rooms, piazzas, holly, 
Cabbages and comedians famed in story. 

Near this famed spot, upon a sober plan, 
Dwelt a right regular and staid young man ; — 
Much did he early hours and quiet love, 
And was entitled, Mr. Isaac Shove. 

He had apartments up two pair of stairs ; 

On the first floor lodged Dr. Crow ; — 

The landlord was a torturer of hairs, 

And made a grand display of wigs below, 

From the Beau's Brutus to the parson's frizzle ; — ■ 

Over the doorway was his name ; 'twas Twizzle. 

Now, Isaac Shove living above this Dr. Crow, — 
And knowing barber Twizzle lived below, — 
Thought it might be as well, 
Hearing so many knocks, single and double, 
To buy at his own cost a street-door bell, 
And save confusion in the house, and trouble. 

Whereby his (Isaac's) visitors might know, 
Without long waiting in the dirt or drizzle, 
To ring for him at once, 
And not to knock for Crow or Twizzle. 

Besides, he now began to feel 

The want of it was rather ungenteel ; — 

For he had often thought it a disgrace, 

To hear, while sitting in his room above, 

Twizzle's shrill maid on the first landing-place, 

Screaming, "A man below vants Mr. Shove.'' 

The bell was bought ; — the wire was made to steal 
Round the dark staircase like a tortured eel 



HUMOROUS PIECES. 331 

Twisting and twining ; — 

The jemmy handle Twizzle's door-post graced; — 

And just beneath a brazen plate was placed, 

Lacquered and shining, 

Graven whereon, in characters full, clear, 

And legible, did "Mr. Shove" appear; — 

And, furthermore, which you might read right well, 

Was, " Please to ring the bell." 

Alas ! what pity 'tis, that regularity 

Like Isaac Shove's is such a rarity. 

But there are swilling wights in London town, 

Term'd " Jolly Dogs — Choice Spirits " — alias swine, 

Who pour, in midnight revel, bumpers down, 

Making their throats a thoroughfare for wine. 

These spendthrifts, who life's pleasures thus run out, 

Dozing with headaches till the afternoon, 
Lose half men's regular estate of sun, 

By borrowing too largely of the moon. 

One of this kidney — Toby Tosspot hight — 
Was coming from the Bedford late at night : 
And being Bacchi plenus, — full of wine, 
Although he had a tolerable notion 
Of aiming at progressive motion, 
'Twasn't direct — 'twas serpentine. 
He work'd with sinuosities along, 

Like Monsieur Corkscrew worming through a cork, 
Not straight, like Corkscrew's proxy, stiff Don Prong, 
a fork. 

At length, with near four bottles in his pate, 
He saw the moon shining on Shove's brass plate, 
When reading, " Please to ring the bell," 

And being civil beyond measure, 

" Ring it ! " says Toby — " very well, 

« I '11 ring it with a deal of pleasure." 

Toby, the kindest soul in all the town, 
Gave it a jerk that almost jerk'd it down. 
He waited full two minutes — no one came ; 
He waited full two minutes more ; and then 



332 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Says Toby, "If he 's deaf, I 'm not to blame, 
I '11 pull it for the gentleman again." 

But the first peal woke Isaac, in a fright ; 
Who, quick as lightning, popping up his head, 
Sat on his head's antipodes, in bed, 
Pale as a parsnip, — bolt upright. 

At length, he wisely to himself doth say, — 

Calming his fears, — 
" Tush ! 'tis some fool has rung and run away;" 

When peal the second rattled in his ears ! 

Shove jump'd into the middle of the floor ; 

And, trembling at each breath of air that stirr'd, 
He groped down stairs, and open'd the street door ; 

While Toby was performing peal the third. 

Isaac eyed Toby, fearfully askant, 

And saw he was a strapper — stout and tall; 

Then put this question — " Pray, sir, what d'ye want ?" 
Says Toby, " I want — want nothing, sir, at all." 

" Want nothing, sir !— you Ve pull'd my bell, I vow, 

As if you 'd jerk it off the wire." 
Quoth Toby, — gravely making him a bow, — 

" I pull'd it, sir, at your desire." 

" At mine !" — " Yes, yours ; I hope I 've done it well: 
High time for bed, sir ; I was hastening to it; 

But, if you write up — ' Please to ring the bell,' 
Common politeness makes me stop and do it." 

Colman. 



HODGE AND THE VICAR. 

Hodge, a poor honest country lout, 
Not over-stock'd with learning ; 

Chanced on a summer's eve to meet 
The vicar, home returning. 

" Ah ! master Hodge," the vicar cried, 
" What still as wise as ever ? 



HUMOROUS PIECES. 333 

" The people in the village say 
" That you are wond'rous clever." 

" Why, measter parson, as to that 

" I beg you'll right conceive me ; 
"I do na brag, but yet I know 

" A thing or two, believe me." 

" We'll try your skill," the parson cried, 

" For learning what digestion: 
"And this you'll prove or right or wrong, 

" By solving me a question. 

" Noah, of old, three babies had 

" Or grown-up children rather, 
" Shem, Ham, and Japhet they were called : 

*' Now who was Japhet's father ?" 

" Rat it !" cried Hodge, and scratched his head, 

" That does my wits belabour ; 
" But howsomede'er, I'll homeward run, 

" And ax old Giles, my neighbour." 

To Giles he went and put the case, 
With circumspect intention ; 
" Thou fool," cried Giles, " I'll make it clear 
"To thy dull comprehension. 

" Three children has Tom Long, the smith, 

" Or cattle- doctor rather ; 
" Tom, Dick, and Harry, they are called ; 

" Now who is Harry's father?" 

" Adzooks, I have it," Hodge replied, 

" Right well I know your lingo ; 
" Who's Harry's father ? — stop — here goes, — 

" Why Tom Long Smith, by jingo." 

Away he ran to find the priest, 

With all his might and main ; 
Who with good humour instant put 

The question once again. 



334 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

" Noah, of old, three babies had, 
" Or grown-up children rather ; 

" Shem, Ham, and Japhet they were called : 
"■ Now who was Japhet's father ?" 

" I have it now," Hodge grinning cried, 

" I'll answer like a Proctor ; 
" Who's Japhet's father? Now I know; 

"Why Long Tom Smith, the doctor." 



Anon. 



LODGINGS FOR SINGLE GENTLEMEN. 

Who has e'er been in London, that over-grown place, 
Has seen " Lodgings to Let" stare him fall in the face. 
Some are good and let dearly; while some, 'tis well known, 
Are so dear, and so bad, they are best let alone. 

Will Waddle, whose temper was studious and lonely, 
Hired lodgings that took Single Gentlemen only ; 
But Will was so fat, he appeared like a tun, 
Or like two Single Gentlemen rolled into One. 

He entered his rooms, and to bed he retreated; 
But all the night long he felt fevered and heated; 
And, though heavy to weigh, as a score ©f fat sheep, 
He was not, by any means, heavy to sleep. 

Next night 'twas the same ! and the next ! and the next ! 
He perspired like an ox; he was nervous and vexed; 
Week past after week, till by weekly succession, 
His weakly condition was past all expression. 

In six months his acquaintance began much to doubt him ; 
For his skin, " like a lady's loose gown," hung about him. 
He sent for a Doctor, and cried, like a ninny, 
" I havelostmany pounds — make me well — there's a guinea." 

The Doctor looked wise: — " a slow fever," he said; 
Prescribed sudorifics, — and going to bed. 



HUMOROUS PIECES. 335 

" Sudorifics in bed," exclaimed Will, "are humbugs! 
" I've enough of them there, without paying for drugs!" 

Will kicked out the Doctor: — but when ill indeed, 
E'en dismissing the Doctor xlon't always succeed; 
So, calling his host — he said — Sir, do you know, 
I'm the fat Single Gentleman, six months ago ? 

" Look ye, landlord, I think," argued Will with a grin, 
" That with honest intentions you first took me in: 
" But from the first night — and to say it I'm bold — 
" I've been so very hot, that I'm sure I caught cold!" 

Quoth the landlord,— "Till now, I ne'er had a dispute; 
" I've let lodgings ten years, — I'm a baker to boot; 
" In airing your sheets, sir, my wife is no sloven; 
" And your bed is immediately — over my oven." 

"The oven!!!" — says Will; — says the host, "Why this 



passion 



" In that excellent bed died three people of fashion. 

" Why so crusty, good sir?" — " Zounds!" cried Will in a 

taking. 
" Who wouldn't be crusty, with half a year's baking?" 

Will paid for his rooms — cried the host, with a sneer, 
" Well, I see you've been going away half a year." 
" Friend, we can't well agree; — yet no quarrel" Will said: 
" But I'd rather not perish, while you make your bread." 

Colman. 



LOGIC ; OR, THE BITER BIT. 

An Eton stripling, training for the law, 
A dunce at syntax, but a dab at taw, 
One happy Christmas, laid upon the shelf 
His cap and gown, and stores of learned pelf, 
With all the deathless bards of Greece and Rome, 
To spend a fortnight at his uncle's home. 
Arrived, and passed the usual " How-d'ye-do's," 
Inquiries of old friends, and college news : 



336 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

" Well, Tom — the road, — what saw you worth discerning? — 

" And how goes study? — What is't you 're learning?" 

"Oh ! logic, sir ; but not the shallow rules 

" Of Locke and Bacon, antiquated fools ! 

"Tis wit, and wrangler's logic ;^;hus, d'ye see, 

" I'll prove at once as plain as A, B, C. 

" That an eel pie 's a pigeon: To deny it, 

" Would be to say black 's white ! " — "Come, Tom, let 's 

try it." — 
"An eel-pie is a pie ofjish V "Agreed." 
"Fish-pie may be a Jack-pie ! " " Well, proceed." 
"A Jack- pie is a Johnnie : and 'tis done ; 
" For every John-pie must be a pie- John ! (pigeon.)" 
" Bravo !" Sir Peter cries, " Logic for ever ! 
"That beats my grandmother, and she was clever! 
"But hold, my boy it surely would be hard, 
"That wit and learning should have no reward ; 
" To-morrow, for a stroll, the park we '11 cross, 
"And there I '11 give thee " — "What?" " A chesnut horse !" 
"A horse! (cries Tom) bravo! Since that the case is, 
"Oh! what a dash I'll cut at Epsom races!" 
To bed he went, and wept for downright sorrow, 
That night must go before he 'd see the morrow ; 
Dreamt of his boots, and spurs, and leather breeches, 
Hunting of cats, and leaping rails and ditches, 
Left his warm rest an hour before the lark, 
Dragged his old uncle, fasting, to the park. 
Halter in hand, each vale he scoured ; at loss 
To spy a something like a chesnut horse ; 
But no such animal the meadows cropped. 
At length, beneath a tree Sir Peter stopped, 
A branch he caught, then shook it, and down fell 
A fine horse-chesnut, in its prickly shell. 
" There, Tom, take that." "Well, sir, and what beside?" 
"Why, since you're booted, saddle it and ride." 
"Ride what ? — A chesnut ?" "Aye, come get across ; 
"I tell you, Tom, that chesnut is a horse, 
"And all the horse you '11 get ; for I can shew, 
" As clear as sunshine, that 'tis really so ; 
"Not by the musty fusty worn-out rules 
"Of Locke and Bacon, — addle-headed fools! 



HUMOROUS PIECES. 337 

Nor by old Aristotle's guide to knowledge, 
But by the laws of wit and Eton-college ; 
All axioms but the wranglers' I'll disown, 
And stick to one sound argument — your own : 
Thus then you proved, your proof I don't deny, 
That a pie- -Johns the same as a John-pie; 
What follows thence ? but, as a thing of course, 
That a horse-chesnut is a ches nut -horse." 

Anon. 



Mr. BARNEY MAGUIRE'S 

Account of the Coronation op Queen Victoria. 

Extracted by permission of R. Bentley, Esq., from the 
" Ingoldsby Legends." 

Och the coronation ! what celebration 

For emulation can with it compare ? 

When to Westminster the royal spinster, 

And the Duke of Leinster, all in order did repair ! 

'Twas there you'd see the new polishmen 

Making a scrimmage at half after four ; 

And the lords and ladies, and the Miss O'Grady's, 

All standing round before the Abbey door ; 

Their pillows scorning, that self same morning, 

Themselves adorning all by candle light, 

With roses and lilies, and daffy down dillies 

And gould and jewels, and rich diamonds bright. 

And then approaches five hundred coaches 

With Giniral Dullbreak ; — Och 'twas mighty fine 

To see how asy bouid Corporal Casey, 

With, his sword drawn, prancing, make them kape the line. 

'Twould have made you crazy to see Esterhazy 

All jools from his jasey to his diamond boots, 

With Alderman Harmer and that swate charmer, 

The famale heiress, Miss Anjaly Coutts. 

And Wellington walking, with his sword drawn, talking 

To Hill and Hardinge, heroes of great fame; 

And Sir de Lacy, and the Duke Dalmasey, — • 

They called him Soult before he changed his name, 

Themselves presading, Lord Melbourne lading 



338 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

The Queen, the darling, to her royal chair, 

And that fine old fellow, the Duke of Pelmello, 

The Queen of Portugal's char gy -de-fair. 

Then the noble Prussians, likewise the Russians, 

In fine laced jackets with their golden cuff's, 

And the Bavarians and the proud Hungarians, 

And every thingarians all in furs and muffs. 

Then Misthur Spaker, with Misthur Pays, the Quaker, 

All in the gallery you might persave ; 

But Lord Brougham was missing, and gone a fishing, 

Only cross Lord Essex would'nt give him lave. 

There was Baron Alter himself exulting, 

And Prince Von Swartzenburg, and many more ; 

Och ! I'd be bothered and entirely smothered 

To tell the half of them was to the fore ! 

With the swate peeresses, in their crowns and dresses, 

And Aldermanesses, and the Board of Works. 

But Mehemet Ali said, quite gentaly, 

" I'd be proud to see the likes among the Turks ;" 

Then the Queen, heaven bless her ! Och they did dress her 

In her purple garments and her golden crown, 

Like Venus or Hebe, or the Queen of Sheby, 

With eight young ladies holding up her gown. 

Then the Archbishop held a golden dish up, 

For to resave her bounty and great wealth, 

Saying, " Plase your glory, great Queen Vict-ory, 

You'll give the clergy lave to drink your health." 

Then his Reverence, retrating, discoursed the mating, 

" Boys, here 's your Queen ! deny it if you can ! 

" And if any bould traitor, or infarior crathur, 

" Sneezes at that, I'd like to see the man." 

Then the nobles kneeling, to the powers appealing, 

" Heaven send your Majesty a glorious reign !" 

And Sir Claudius Hunter he did confront her 

All in his scarlet gown and goulden chain. 

Then there was preaching, and good store of speaching, 

With Dukes and Marquises on bended knee ; 

And they did splash her with raal maccasher, 

And the Queen said, " Oh ! then thank ye all for me." 

Then the crames and custards, and the beef and mustard, 

All on the tombstones like a poulterer's shop ; 



HUMOROUS PIECES. 339 

With lobsters and white bait, and other swate-meats, 

And wine and nagus, and imperial pop ; 

There was cakes and apples in all the chapels ; 

With fine polonies and rich mellow pears. 

Och, the Count Von Shogonoff, sure he got prog enough 

That sly old cratur underneath the stairs. 

Then the cannons thunder'd, and the people wonder'd, 

Crying " God save Victoria our Royal Queen I" 

Och ! if myself should live to be a hundred, 

Sure it 's the proudest day that I 've seen ; 

And now I 've ended what I pretended, 

This narration splendid in swate poetry. 

Ye dear bewitcher, just hand the pitcher, 

Faith, it 's myself that 's getting mighty dry ! 

Barham. 



MES. DOBBS AT HOME. 
{From ". Gaieties and Gravities. 3 ' ') 



What ! shall the Morning Post proclaim 

For every rich or high-born dame, 

From Portman Square to Cleveland Row, 

Each item — no one cares to know; 

Print her minutest whereabouts, 

Describe her concerts, balls, or routs, 

Enumerate the lamps and lustres, 

Shew where the roses hung in clusters, 

Tell how the floor was chalked, reveal 

The partners in the first quadrille, 

How long they danced, till, sharp as hunters, 

They sat down to the feast from Gunter's ; 

How much a quart was paid for peas, 

How much for pines and strawberries, 

Taking especial care to fix 

The hour of parting, half-past six ? 

And shall no bard make proclamation 

Of routs enjoyed in humble station ? 

Rise, honest Muse, to Hackney roam, 

And sing of Mrs. Dobbs at home. 



340 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

He who knows Hackney needs must know 

That spot enchanting, Prospect Row ; 

So called because a view it shews 

Of Shoreditch Road, and when there blows 

No dust, the folks may one and all get 

A peep almost — to Norton Folgate. 

Here Mrs. Dobbs, at Number Three, 

Invited all her friends to tea ; 

The Row had never heard before 

Such double knocks at any door, 

And heads were popped from every casement 

Counting the comers with amazement. 

Some magnified them to eleven, 

While others swore there were but seven, 

A point that 's keenly mooted still ; 

But certain 't is that Mrs. Gill 

Told Mrs. Grubb she reckoned ten. 

Fat Mrs. Hobbs came second : then 

Came Mesdames Jinkins, Dump, and Spriggins, 

Tapps, Jacks, Briggs, Hoggins, Crumps, and Wiggins. 

Dizen'd in all her best array, 

Our melting hostess said her say ; 

As the souchong repast proceeded, 

And, curtseying and bobbing pressed 

By turns each gormandizing guest, 

To stuff as heartily as she did. 

Dear Mrs. Hoggins, what ! your cup 

Turned in your saucer, bottom up ! 

Dear me, how soon you 've had your fill ! 

Let me persuade you — one more cup, 

'Twill do you good, indeed it will : — 

Psha ! now, you 're only making game, 

Or else you tea 'd afore you came. 

Stop, Mrs. Jenkins, let me stir it, 

Before I pour out any more. — 

No, Ma'am, that 's just as I prefer it. — 

O then, I '11 make it as before. 

Lawk ! Mrs. Dump, that toast seems dry, 

Do take and eat this middle bit ; 

The butter's fresh, you may rely, 

And a fine price I paid for it. 



HUMOROUS PIECES. 341 

No doubt, Ma'am — what a shame it is ! 

And Cambridge too again has riz ! 

You don't deal now with Mrs. Keats ? 

No, she 's a bad one : — Ma'am, she cheats. 

Hush ! Mrs. Crumps, her aunt, — good lack ! 

How lucky, she 's just turned her back ! 

Don't spare the toast, Ma'am, don't say no, 

I Ve got another round below ; 

I g\ye folks plenty when I ax 'em, 

For cut and come again 's my maxim ; 

Nor should I deem it a misfortun, 

If you demolishes the whole quart'n. 

A charming garden, Mrs. Dobbs, 

For drying — Ain't it Mrs. Hobbs ? 

But though our water-tub runs o'er, 

A heavy wash is such a bore, 

Our smalls is all that we hang out. 

Well, that 's a luxury, no doubt. 

La ! Mrs. Tapps, do only look, 

Those grouts can never be mistook ; 

Well, such a cup t it can't be worse, 

See here 's six horses in a hearse ; 

And there 's the church and burying-place, 

Plain as the nose upon your face : 

Next dish may dissipate your doubts, 

And give you less unlucky grouts ; 

One more you must — the pot has stood 

I warrant me its strong and good. 

There 's Mrs. Spriggins in the garden ; 

What a fine gown ! but begging pardon, 

It seems to me amazing dingy — 

Do you^think her shawl, Ma'am's, real Ingy ? 

Lord love you ! no, — well, give me clo'es 

That 's plain and good, Ma'am, not like those ; 

Though not so tawdry, Mrs. Jacks, 

We do put clean things on our backs. 

Meat, Ma'am is scand'lous dear. — Perhaps 

You deal, Ma'am, still with Mrs. Tapps. 

Not I, — we know who 's got to pay, 

When butchers drive their one-horse shay. 

Well, I pay nine for rumps. At most 

We pay but eight for boiled and roast, 



342 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 



And get our rumps from Leadenhall 
At seven, taking shins and all. 
Yes, meat is monstrous dear all round ; 
But dripping brings a groat a pound. 
Thus on swift wing the moments flew, 
Until 'twas time to say adieu ; 
When each prepared to waddle back, 
Warmed with a sip of Cogniac ; 
Which was with Mrs. Dobbs a law, 
Whene'er the night was cold and raw. 
Umbrellas, pattens, lanterns, clogs, 
Were sought, away the party jogs, 
And silent solitude again 
O'er Prospect Row resumed its reign ; 
Just as the watchman crawled in sight, 
To cry " Past ten — a cloudy night." 



Horace Smith. 



MRS. ROSE GROB. 

{From " Gaieties and Gravities") 

None would have known that Siegmund Grob 

Lived foreman to a sugar-baker, 
But that he died and left the job, 

Of tombstone- making to an undertaker ; 
Who, being a mason, also was a poet, 

So he engraved a skull upon the stone, 
(The sexton of Whitechapel church will shew it), 

Then carved the following couplet from his own 
" Stop, reader stop, and give a sob 
" For Siegmund Grob." 

Two thousand pounds, besides her savings, 
Was quite enough all care to drown ; 

No wonder then she soon felt craving 
To quit the melancholy city, 

And take a cottage out of town, 
And live genteel and pretty. 



HUMOROUS PIECES. 343 

Accordingly, in Mile-end-road 

She quickly chose a snug retreat ; 
'Twas quite a pastoral abode, 

Its situation truly sweet ! 
Her cottage front was stuccoed white ; 

Before it two fine poplars grew, 
Which nearly reached the roof or quite ; 

And in one corner painted blue, 
Stood a large water-tub with wooden spout, 
(She never put a rag of washing out). 

Upon the house-top, on a plaster shell, 

V Rose Cottage " was inscribed, its name to dub : 
The green door looked particularly well, 

Picked out with blue, to match the tub ; 
The children round about were smitten 

Whene'er they stopped to fix their eye on 

The flaming knocker, ('twas a lion) ; 
Beneath it was a large brass knob, 

And on a plate above was written 
" Mrs. Rose Grob." 

Here she resided free from strife, 
Except perpetual scolds with Betty, 

For the main objects of her life 
Were two — and formed her daily trade — 
To cram herself, and starve her maid. 

For one no savings were too petty, 
For t' other no tit-bit too nice. 

After dinner, in a trice 
She locked the fragments up in towels ; 

She weighed out bread, and cheese, and butter, 

And in all cases shewed an utter 
Disregard for Betty's bowels ; 

As if in penance for her sins, 

She made her dine on shanks and shins ; 
(Was ever such a stingy hussey) ? 

And reckoned it a treat to give her 

Half a pound of tripe or liver, — 
First cutting off a slice for pussey ; 

Nay, of all perquisites the damsel stripping, 

She wouldn't even let her sell the dripping. 



344 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

The washing week approached ; an awful question 

Now agitated Rose with pangs inhuman, 
How to supply the Mammoth-like digestion 

Of that carnivorous beast — a washer-woman. 
A camel's paunch for ten day's drink is hollowed, 

So theirs takes in at once a ten days' munching ; 
At twelve o'clock you hear them say they've swallowed 
Nothing to speak of, since their second luncheon, 

And as they will not dine till one, 
'Tis time their third lunch was begun. 

At length provisions being got all proper, 
And everything put out, starch, blue, soap, gin ; 

A fire being duly laid beneath the copper, 
The clothes in soak all ready to begin ; 

Up to her room the industrious Betty goes 

To fetch her sheets, and screams down stairs to Rose, 
" La, goodness me ! why here's a job ! 

You ha'nt put out a second pair." 
" No more I have," said Mrs. Grob ; 

" Well, that's a good un I declare ! 
<l Sure I've the most forgetful head, 

" And there 's no time to air another, 
" So take one sheet from oif your bed, 

" And make a shift, to-night, with t'other." 
On Rose's part this was a ruse-de-guerre, 
To save the expense of washing half a pair ; 

But as the biter's sometimes bitten, 
So, in this instance, it occurred, 
For Betty took her at her word ; 

And, with the bright conception smitten, 
Sat up all night, and, with good thrift, 

Of needle, scissors, thimble, thread, 
Cut up one sheet into a shift, 

And took the other oif the bed ! 
Next morn, when Mrs. Grob, at three o'clock, 

Went up to call the maid, 

And saw the mischief done by aid 
Of scissors, thread, and needle, 

There 's no describing what a shock 
It gave her to behold the sheet in tatters ; 
And so, by way of mending matters, 



HUMOROUS PIECES. 345 

She called her cheat, and slut, and jade, 
And talked of sending for the beadle ! 

"La, Ma'am!" quoth Betty; "don't make such a 
pother ; 
" I've done exactly what you Ve said, 
" Taken one sheet from off the bed, 

" And made a shift to-night with t'other." 

Horace Smith. 



THE COLLEGIAN AND THE PORTER. 

{From "Gaieties and Gravities.") 

At Trin. Coll. Cam. — which means, in proper spelling, 

Trinity College, Cambridge, — there resided 
One Harry Dashington — a youth excelling 

In all the learning commonly provided 
For those who choose that classic station 
For finishing their education : 
That is — he understood computing 

The odds at any race or match ; 
Was a dead hand at pigeon shooting ; 

Could kick up rows — knock down the watch — ■ 
Play truant and the rake at random — 

Drink — tie cravats— and drive a tandem. 
Remonstrance, fine, and rustication, 
So far from working reformation, 

Seem'd but to make his lapses greater ; 
Till he was warn'd that next offence 
Would have this certain consequence — 

Expulsion from his Alma Mater. 



One need not be a necromancer 

To guess that with so wild a wight, 
The next offence occurr'd next night ; 
When our Incurable came rolling 
Home as the midnight chimes were tolling, 

A.nd rang the College bell. — No answer. — 



346 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

The second peal was vain — the third 

Made the street echo its alarum ; 
When to his great delight he heard 
The sordid Janitor, old Ben, 
Rousing and growling in his den. 

"Who 's there ? — I s'pose young Harum-scarum. 
" 'Tis I, my worthy Ben — 'tis Harry." 
"Ay, so I thought — and there you '11 tarry ; 
"Tis past the hour — the gates are closed — 

"You know my orders — I shall lose 

"My place if I undo the door" — 
"And I," (young Hopeful interposed), 

"Shall be expell'd if you refuse, 
"So pr'ythee" — Ben began to snore. — 
"I 'm wet," cried Harry, "to the skin, 

"Hip ! hallo! Ben — don't be a ninny; 

"Beneath the gate I've thrust a guinea, 
'So tumble out and let me in." 

"Humph!" growl'd the greedy old Curmudgeon, 

Half overjoy'd and half in dudgeon, 

"Now you may pass, but make no fuss, 
" On tiptoe walk and hold your prate." — 

"Look on the stones, old Cerberus," 
Cried Harry as he pass'd the gate, 

" I 've dropp'd a shilling — take the light, 

"You '11 find it just outside— good night." 

Behold the porter in his shirt, 

Chiding the rain which never stopp'd, 
Groping and raking in the dirt, 
And all without success ; but that 
Is hardly to be wonder'd at, 

Because no shilling had been dropp'd ; 
So he gave o'er the search at last, 
Regain'd the door, — and found it fast; — 
With sundry oaths and growls and groans, 

He rang once — twice — and thrice ; and then, 
Mingled with giggling heard the tones 

Of Harry mimicking old Ben. — 



HUMOROUS PIECES. 347 

" Who's there ? — Tis really a disgrace 
"To ring so loud — I 've lock'd the gate — 
"I know my duty — 'Tis too late — 
"You wouldn't have me lose my place." 

"Psha! Mr. Dashington : remember; 
"Tis the middle of November. 

"I'm stripp'd; — 'tis raining cats and dogs." 
"Hush, hush!" quoth Hal, "I 'm fast asleep; 
"And then he snored as loud and deep 
"As a whole company of hogs. 
"But hark ye, Ben, I '11 grant admittance 

" At the same rate I paid myself." — 
"Nay, Master, leave me half the pittance," 

Replied the avaricious elf. 
" No : all or none — a full acquittance ; 
"The terms I know are somewhat high; 
"But you have fix'd the price, not I — 

"I won't take less; — I can't afford it." 
So finding all his haggling vain, 
Ben, with a sigh and groan of pain, 

Drew out the guinea and restored it. 

" Surely you '11 give me," growl'd th' outwitted 
Porter, when again admitted, 

"Something, now you've done your joking, 

For all this trouble, time, and soaking." 

"Oh, surely- — surely," Harry said; 

"Since as you urge, I broke your rest, 
"And you're half drown'd and quite undress'd, 
I '11 give you, — leave to go to bed." 

Horace Smith. 



THE COUNTRY FELLOWS AND THE ASS. 

A country fellow and his son, they tell 
In modern fables, had an ass to sell : 
For this intent they turned it out to play, 
And fed so well, that by the destined day, 
They brought the creature into sleek repair, 
And drove it gently to a neighbouring fair. 



348 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

As they were jogging on, a rural class 
Was heard to say, " Look ! look there, at that ass ! 
" And those two blockheads trudging on each side, 
" That have not, either of 'em, sense to ride ; 
•' Asses all three !" And thus the country folks 
On man and boy began to cut their jokes. 

Th' old fellow minded nothing that they said, 
But every word stuck in the young one's head ; 
And thus began their comment thereupon : 
" Ne'er heed 'm, lad." " Nay, father, do get on." 
" Not I, indeed." " Why then let me, I pray." 
" Well do ; and see what prating tongues will say." 

The boy was mounted ; and they had not got 
Much further on, before another knot, 
Just as the ass was pacing by, pad, pad, 
Cried, " O ! that lazy looby of a lad ! 
" How unconcernedly the gaping brute 
" Lets the poor aged fellow walk a-foot." 

Down came the son, on hearing this account, 

And begged and prayed, and made his father mount : 

Till a third party, on a further stretch, 

" See! see!" exclaimed, "that old hard-hearted wretch ! 

" How like a justice there he sits, or squire; 

" While the poor lad keeps wading through the mire." 

" Stop," cried the lad, still vexed in deeper mind, 

" Stop, father, stop ; let me get on behind." 

This done, they thought they certainly should please, 

Escape reproaches, and be both at ease ; 

For having tried each practicable way, 

What could be left for jokers now to say ? 

Still disappointed, by succeeding tone, 
" Hark ye, you fellows ! Is that ass your own ? 
" Get off, for shame ! or one of you at least! 
" You both deserve to carry the poor beast, 
" Ready to drop down dead upon the road, 
" With such a huge, unconscionable load." 



HUMOROUS PIECES. 349 

On this they hoth dismounted ; and, some say, 

Contrived to carry, like a truss of hay, 

The ass between 'em ; prints, they add, are seen 

With man and lad, and slinging ass between ; 

Others omit that fancy in the print, 

As overstraining an ingenious hint. 

The copy that we follow says, The man 
Rubbed down the ass, and took to his first plan, 
Walked to the fair, and sold him, got his price, 
And gave his son this pertinent advice : 
" Let talkers talk ; stick thou to what is best ; 
" To think of pleasing all — is all a jest." 

Dr. Byrom. 



THE DOCTOR AND HIS APPRENTICE. 

A pupil of the ^Esculapian school 
Was just prepared to quit his master's rule : 
Not that he knew his trade, as it appears, 
But that he then had learnt it seven years. 

Yet think not that in knowledge he was cheated- 

All that he had to study still, 

Was, when a man was well or ill, 
And how, if sick, he should be treated. 

One morn, he thus address'd his master : 

" Dear Sir, my honour' d father bids me say, 
" If I could now and then a visit pay, 
"He thinks with you, 
" To notice how you do, 
" My business I might learn a little faster." 

" The thought is happy," the preceptor cries; 
" A better method he could scarce devise ; 
" So Bob, (his pupil's name) it shall be so, 
" And when I next pay visits, you shall go." 



350 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

To bring that hour, alas ! time briskly fled : 

With dire intent, 

Away they went, 
And now behold them at a patient's bed. 

The master-doctor solemnly perused 

His victim's face, and o'er his symptoms mused ; 

Look'd wise, said nothing — an unerring way, 

When people nothing have to say : 

Then felt his pulse and smelt his cane, 

And paused, and blink'd, and smelt again, 

And briefly of his corps performed each motion; 
Manoeuvres that for Death's platoon are meant: 
A kind of a Make-ready and present! 

Before the fell discharge of pill and potion. 

At length the patient's wife he thus address'd: 
" Madam, your husband's danger 's great, 
" And (what will never his complaint abate) 
" The man's been eating oysters, I perceive." 
" Dear! you 're a witch, I verily believe," 

Madam replied, and to the truth confessed. 

Skill so prodigious Bobby too admired, 
And home returning of the sage inquired, 

How these same oysters came into his head ? 
" Psha! my dear Bob, the thing was plain — 
" Sure that can ne'er distress thy brain, 

" I saw the shells lie underneath the bed." 

So wise by such a lesson grown, 
Next day Bob ventured forth alone, 

And to the self-same sufferer paid his court — 
But soon, with haste and wonder out of breath, 
Returned the stripling minister of Death, 

And to his master made this dread report : 
" Why, Sir, we ne'er can keep that patient under, 

* ' Zounds ! such a maw I never came across ! 
" The fellow must be dying, and no wonder, 

" For hang me if he hasn't eat a horse!" 



HUMOROUS PIECES. 351 

" A horse !" the elder man of physic cried, 

As if he meant his pupil to deride — 

" How came so wild a notion in your head!" 

" How ! think not in my duty I was idle, 
" Like you, I took a peep beneath the bed, 

" And there I saw a saddle and a bridle." 

Anon. 



THE FARMER AND THE COUNSELLOR. 

{From " Gaieties and Gravities.") 

A counsel in the " Common Pleas," 

Who was esteemed a mighty wit, 

Upon the strength of a chance hit, 
Amid a thousand flippancies, 
And his occasional bad jokes, 

In bullying, bantering, browbeating, 

Ridiculing, and maltreating 
Women, or other timid folks ; 
In a late cause, resolved to hoax 
A clownish, Yorkshire farmer — one 

Who, by his uncouth look and gait, 

Appeared expressly meant by fate 
For being quizzed and played upon. 

So having tipped the wink to those 

In the back rows, 
Who kept their laughter bottled down, 

Until our wag should draw the cork — 
He smiled jocosely on the clown, 

And went to work. 

" Well, Farmer Numskull, how go calves at York? " 
" Why — not, sir, as they do wi' you ; 
" But on four legs instead of two :" 

" Officer ! " cried the legal elf, 

Piqued at the laugh against himself, 



352 



THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

" Do pray keep silence down below there ! 
" Now look at me, clown, and attend, 
" Have I not seen you somewhere, friend ?" 

•' Yees, very like, I often go there." 

" Our rustic waggish is, and quite laconic," 
(The counsel cried with grin sardonic,) 

" I wish I had known this prodigy, 
" This genius of the clods, when I 

" On circuit was at York residing. 
" Now, farmer, do for once speak true, 
" Mind, you 're on oath, so tell me, you 
" Who doubtless think yourself so clever, 
" Are there as many fools as ever 

" In the West Riding ?" 

" Why no, sir, no ! we 've got our share, 
" But not so many as when you were there." 

Horace Smith. 



THE FARMER'S WIFE, AND THE GASCON. 

(From " Gaieties and Gravities*') 

At Neuchatel, in France, where they prepare 
Cheeses that set us longing to be mites, 
There dwelt a farmer's wife, famed for her rare 
Skill in these small quadrangular delights. 
Where they were made they sold for the immense 

Price of three sous a piece ; 
But as salt water made their charms increase, 
In England the fixed rate was eighteen pence. 

This damsel had to help her in the farm, 
To milk her cows and feed her hogs, 
A Gascon peasant, with a sturdy arm 
For digging or for carrying logs, 
But in his noddle, weak as any baby, 
In fact a gaby ; 



HUMOROUS PIECES. 353 

And such a glutton when you came to feed him, 
That Wantley's dragon, who ate barns and churches 
As if they were geese and turkeys, 
(Vide the ballad), scarcely could exceed him. 

One morn she had prepared a monstrous bowl 

Of cream, like nectar, 

And would'nt go to church (good careful soul !) 

Till she had left it safe with a protector ; 

So she gave strict injunctions to the Gascon 

To watch it while his mistress was to mass gone. 

Watch it he did — he never took his eyes off, 

But lick'd his upper then his under lip, 

And doubled up his fist to drive the flies off; 

Begrudging them the smallest sip, 

Which, if they got, 
Like my Lord Salisbury, he heaved a sigh, 
And cried, " O happy, happy fly, 

How I do envy you your lot !" 

Each moment did his appetite grow stronger ; 

His bowels yearned ; 
At length he could not bear it any longer, 

But on all sides his looks he turned, 
And finding that the coast was clear, he quaff 'd 

The whole up at a draught. 
Scudding from church, the farmer's wife 

Flew to the dairy ; 
But stood aghast, and could not for her life, 
One sentence mutter, 

Until she summoned breath enough to utter 
" Holy St. Mary !" 

And shortly, with a face of scarlet, 
The vixen (for she was a vixen), flew 

Upon the varlet, 
Asking the when, and where, and how, and who, 
Had gulped her cream, nor left an atom ; 
To which he gave not separate replies, 
But with a look of excellent digestion 
One answer made to every question ; 
" The flies !" 



354 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

" The flies, you rogue ! the flies, you guttling dog! 

" Behold, your whiskers still all covered thickly : 

" Thief — liar — villain — gormandiser — hog ! 

" I '11 make you tell another story quickly." 

So out she bounced, and brought with loud alarms, 

Two stout Gens d'Armes, 
"Who bore him to the judge — a little prig 

With angry bottle nose, 

Like a red cabbage rose, 
While lots of white ones flourished on his wig. 
Looking both stern and wise, 

He turned to the delinquent, 
And 'gan to question him and catechise 
As to which way the drink went ; 
Still the same dogged answers rise ; 
" The flies, my lord, the flies, the flies !" 

" Psha !" quoth the judge, half peevish and half pompous, 

" Why you're non compos. 
" You should have watched the bowl as she desired, 

" And killed the flies, you stupid clown." 
" What, is it lawful then," the dolt inquired, 

" To kill the flies in this here town ?" 
" The man 's an ass — a pretty question this ! 
" Lawful ? You booby ! to be sure it is. 
" You *ve my authority where'er you meet 'em, 
" To kill the rogues, and if you like it, eat 'em." 
" Zooks !" cried the rustic, " I'm right glad to hear it. 
" Constable, catch that thief! may I go hang 
" If yonder blue-bottle (I know his face), 
" Is'nt the very leader of the gang 
" That stole the cream ; let me come near it !" 
This said, he started from his place, 
And aiming one of his sledge-hammer blows 
At a large fly upon the judge's nose, 
The luckless blue-bottle he smashed, 

And gratified a double grudge ; 
For the same catapult completely smashed 
The bottle-nose belonging to the judge ! 

Horace Smith. 



HUMOROUS PIECES. 355 

THE NEWCASTLE APOTHECARY. 

A member of the ^sculapian line, 
Lived at Newcastle-upon-Tyne: 
No man could better gild a pill, 

Or make a bill, 
Or mix a draught, or bleed, or blister ; 
Or draw a tooth out of your head ; 
Or chatter scandal by your bed ; 

Or give a clyster. 
His fame full six miles round the country ran ; 

In short, in reputation he was solus : 
All the old women called him ' a fine man ! ' 

His name was Bolus. 

Benjamin Bolus, though in trade, 

(Which oftentimes will genius fetter), 
Read works of fancy, it is said, 

And cultivated the " belles lettres." 

And why should this be thought so odd ? 

Can't men have taste who cure a phthisic ? 
Of poetry, though patron God, 

Apollo patronizes physic. 

Bolus loved verse ; — and took so much delight in 't, 
All his prescriptions he resolved to write in 't. 

No opportunity he e'er let pass 

Of writing the directions on his labels 

In dapper couplets, like Gay's Fables, 

Or rather, like the lines in Hudibras. 

He had a patient lying at death's door, 
Some three miles from the town, it might be four, 
To whom, one evening, Bolus sent an article — 
In pharmacy that's called cathartical : 
And on the label of the stuff 

He wrote this verse, 
Which one would think was clear enough, 

And terse, — 

" When taken, 

" To be well shaken** 



356 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Next morning early Bolus rose, 
And to the patient's house he goes 

Upon his pad, 
"Who a vile trick of stumbling had : 
But he arrived, and gave a tap, 
Between a single and a double rap. 

Knocks of this kind 
Are given by gentlemen who teach to dance; 

By fiddlers, and by opera-singers ; — ■ 
One loud, and then a little one behind, 
As if the knocker fell by chance 

Out of their fingers. 

The servant lets him in, with dismal face, 
Long as a courtier's out of place, — 

Portending some disaster ; 
John's countenance as rueful looked and grim, 
As if the Apothecary had physicked him, 

And not his master. 



" Well, how 's the patient ?" Bolus said. 

John shook his head. 
" Indeed ! — hum ! — ha ! — that's very odd ! — 
" He took the draught ?" — John gave a nod — 
" Well ? — how ? — what then ?— speak out, you dunce !" 
" Why then (says John) we shook him once." — 
" Shook him ! how ? how ?" friend Bolus stammered out. — 

" We jolted him about." — 

" What ! shake the patient, man! — why that won't do." 
" No, Sir, (quoth John) and so we gave him two." 

" Two shakes 1 oh, luckless verse ! 

" 'Twould make the patient worse !" 
" It did so, Sir, — and so a third we tried." — 
" Well, and what then ?" — " Then, Sir, my master — died." 

COLMAN. 



HUMOROUS PIECES. 357 



THE RAZOR-SELLER. 

A fellow, in a market-town, 

Most musical cried razors up and down, 

And offer'd twelve for eighteen-pence ; 
Which certainly seem'd wond'rous cheap, 
And, for the money, quite a heap, 

As every man would buy, with cash and sense. 

A country bumpkin the great offer heard : 

Poor Hodge ! who suffer' d by a thick, black beard, 

That seemed a shoe-brush stuck beneath his nose. 
With cheerfulness the eighteen-pence he paid, 
And proudly to himself, in whispers, said, 

" This rascal stole the razors, I suppose. 

" No matter if the fellow be a knave, 
" Provided that the razors do but shave : 

" It certainly will be a monstrous prize." 
So, home the clown with his good fortune went, 
Smiling in heart, and soul content, 

And quickly soaped himself to ears and eyes. 

Being well lather' d from a dish or tub, 
Hodge now began with grinning pain to grub, 

Just like a hedger cutting furze : 
'Twas a vile razor ! then the rest he tried ; 
Ail were impostors. " Ah !" Hodge sighed, 

" I wish my eighteen-pence within my purse !" 

In vain to chase his beard, and bring the graces, 

He cut, and dug, and winced, and stamped and swore ; 

Brought blood and danced, reviled and made wry faces, 
And cursed each razor's body o'er and o'er. 

His muzzle, form'd of opposition stuff, 
Firm as a courtier, would not lose its ruff ; 

So kept it — laughing at the steel and suds : 
Hodge, in a passion, stretch'd his angry jaws, 
Vowing the direst vengeance, with clench'd claws, 

On the vile cheat that sold the goods. 



358 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

" Razors ! a vile confounded dog ! 
" Not fit to scrape a hog !" 

Hodge sought the fellow, found him, and begun : 
" Perhaps, Master Razor-rogue, to you 'tis fun 

" That people flay themselves out of their lives. 
" You rascal ! for an hour have I been grubbing, 
" Giving my scoundrel- whiskers here a scrubbing, 

" With razors just like oyster-knives. 
" Sirrah ! I tell you, you're a knave, 
" To cry up razors that won't shave." 

" Friend," quoth the razor-man, " I 'm not a knave : 

" As for the razors you have bought, 

" Upon my word, I never thought 
" That they would shave." 
" Not think they'd shave!" quoth Hodge, with wondering 



And voice not much unlike an Indian yell ; 
" What were they made for, then, you dog !" he cries: 
" Made!" quoth the fellow, with a smile, " to sell." 

Dr. Walcot. 



THE SURGEON AND THE HOUSE PAINTERS. 

(From " Gaieties and Gravities.") 

Painters are like the dry-rot ; if we let 'em 

Fix on our panels and our planks, 
There's no ejectment that can get 'em 

Out, till they've fairly played their pranks. 
There is a time, however, when the ghastly 

Spectres cease to haunt our vision ; 
And as my hearers, doubtless, would like vastly 

To calculate it with precision, 
I'll tell them, for their ease and comfort, 
What happened t'other day at Romford. 

In that great thoroughfare for calves, 

Destined to pacify the yearning 
Of Norton Folgate gormandising, 

There dwelt a surgeon, who went halves 



HUMOROUS PIECES. 359 

"With the apothecary, in the earnings 

From broken limbs and accidents arising. 
But, somehow, the good Romford drones 

Were so confounded careful against harms, 

They neither broke their legs nor arms, 
Nor even slipped their collar bones. 

In short, he couldn't find one benefactor 
Among these cruel calf and pig herds, 

To treat him with a single fracture ;— 
Was ever such a set of niggards? 

The fact is, that they never took the road, 
Except on vehicles which Heaven bestowed — 

But if with other legs you take a journey, 

What wonder if they sometimes overturn ye ? 
One morn a patent safety coach 

Departed from the Swan with two Necks, 
A sign that seems intended to reproach 

Those travellers of either sex, 
Who deem one neck sufficient for the risks 
Of ditches, drunkards, wheels, and four-legged frisks. 

Just as they entered Romford with a dash, 
Meaning to pass the opposition, 
The front wheel came in violent collision 

With a low post — was shivered — smash ! 

And down the coach came with a horrid crash. 

" Zooks !" cried the coachman, as he swore and cursed, 
" That rascal Jack will get to Chelmsford first. 
" We might have had worse luck on't ; for I sees 
" None of the horses hasn't broke their knees." 
As to his fare, or any human limb, 
Had ten been broken, 'twas all one to him. 
Luckily for the passengers, the master 
Of the Plough Inn, who witnessed the disaster, 
Ran with his men, and maids, and spouse, 
The imprisoned sufferers unpounded, 
Conveyed the frighten'd, sick, and wounded 

Into his house ; 
Then hied himself into the town, to urge on 
The speed of the aforesaid surgeon. 



360 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

He came — inquired the wounds and spasms 

Of all the mistresses and masters ; 
Applied lint — poultice — balsams — plasters, 
And cataplasms, 

Bandaging some, and letting others blood, 

And then ran home to tell how matters stood. 
Like Garrick 'twixt Thalia and Melpomene, 

His wife put on her tragi- comic features : 
She had a heart — but also an uncommon eye 

To the main chance — and so she cried, " Poor crea- 
tures ! 
" Dear me — how shocking to be wounded thus ! — 
A famous God- send, certainly, for us ! 

" Don't tell me any more, my dear Cathartic, 

" The horrid story really makes my heart ache. 
" One broken rib — an ankle sprained — that 's worse ) 

" I mean that's better, for it lasts the longer ; 
" Those careless coachmen are the traveller's curse, 

" How lucky that they had n't got to Ongar ! 
" Two bad contusions — several ugly wounds, 
" Why this should be a job of fifty pounds ! 

" So now there 's no excuse for being stingy ; 
" 'Tis full twelve years — no matter when it was — 

" At all events, the parlour's horrid dingy, 
And now it shall be painted — that is poz !" 

The painters come — two summer days they give 

To scrape acquaintance with each panel ; 
Then mix the deadly stuff by which they live, 

(The smell's enough to make the stoutest man ill), 
And now, in all their deleterious glory, 

They fall upon the wainscot con amove ; 
The parlour's done — you wouldn't know the room, 

It looks four times as large, and eight times lighter ; 

But most unluckily, as that grew whiter, 
The hall looked less, and put on tenfold gloom. 

" There 's no use doing things by halves, my dear, 

" We must just titivate the hall, that 's clear." 
"Well, be it so, you've my consent, my love, 
" But when that's done, the painters go, by Jove !" 



HUMOROUS PIECES. 361 

They heard him, and began. All hurry-scurry, 

They set to work instanter, 
But presently they slackened from their hurry 

Into a species of snail's canter. 
The surgeon, who had had his fill 
Of stench, and trembled for his bill, 
Saw day by day, with aggravated loathing, 

That they were only dabbling, paddling, 

Twiddling, and fiddle-faddling, 
And helping one another to do nothing ; 
So called the foreman in, and begged to know, 
As a great favour, when they meant to go. 
" Why," quoth the honest man, scratching his nob, 
" Not afore master gets another job." 

The surgeon stormed and swore, but took the hint, 
Laid in a double stock of lint, 

And to his patients at the " Plough" dispenses, 
Week after week, new pills and plasters ; 
Looks very grave on their disasters, 

And will not answer for the consequences, 
If they presume to use their arms or feet, 
Before their cure is quite complete. 
" No, no," he mutters, " they shall be 
" Served as the painters treated me ; 

" And, if my slowness they reproach, 
" I '11 tell them they shall leave the place 
" The moment there 's another race 

" Run by the patent safety coach." 

Horace Smith. 



THE THREE BLACK CROWS. 

Two honest tradesmen, meeting in the Strand, 

One took the other briskly by the hand. 

" Hark ye," said he, " 'tis an odd story this 

" About the crows !" " I dont know what it is," 

Replied his friend. " No ! I'm surprised at that, — 

" Where I come from it is the common chat : 



362 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

" But you shall hear an odd affair indeed ! 

" And that it happened they are all agreed : 

" Not to detain you from a thing so strange, 

" A gentleman who lives not far from 'Change, 

" This week, in short, as all the Alley knows, 

" Taking a vomit, threw up three black crows !" 

" Impossible \" " Nay, but 'tis really true ; 

" I had it from good hands, and so may you." 

" From whose, I pray ?" So, having named the man, 

Straight to enquire, his curious comrade ran. 

" Sir, did you tell?" relating the affair. 

" Yes, sir, I did ; and, if 'tis worth your care 

" 'Twas Mr. — such an one — who told it me ; 

" But by the bye, 'twas two black crows, not three !" 

Resolved to trace so wond'rous an event, 
Quick to the third the virtuoso went. 
" Sir," and so forth. " Why yes ; the thing is fact, 
" Though in regard to number not exact : 
" It was not two black crows, 'twas only one ; 
" The truth of that you may depend upon ; 
" The gentleman himself told me the case." 
" Where may I find him ?" " Why, in" — such a place. 
Away he went, and having found him out, 
" Sir, be so good as to resolve a doubt." 
Then to his last informant he referred, 
And begged to know if true what he had heard : 
" Did you, sir, throw up a black crow ?" " Not I !" 
" Bless me ! how people propagate a lie ! 
" Black crows have been thrown up, three, two, and one ; 
" And here, I find, all comes at last to none ! 
" Did you say nothing of a crow at all ?" 
" Crow — crow — perhaps I might ; now I recall 
" The matter over." " And pray, sir, what was't?" 
" Why I was horrid sick, and at the last 
" I did throw up, and told my neighbour so, 
" Something that was — as black, sir, as a crow." 

Dr. Byrom. 



HUMOROUS PIECES. 363 



THE TINKER AND THE GLAZIER. 

Since gratitude, 'tis said, is not o'er common, 

And friendly acts are pretty near as few ; 
With high and low, with man, and eke with woman, 
With Turk, with Pagan, Christian, and with Jew ; 
We ought, at least, whene'er we chance to find 

Of these rare qualities a slender sample, 
To show they may possess the human mind, 
And try the boasted influence of example. 
Who knows how far the novelty may charm ? 
At all events, it cannot do much harm. 
The tale we give, then, and we need not fear 
The moral, if there be one, will appear. 
Two thirsty souls met on a sultry day, 

One Glazier Dick, the other Tom the Tinker ; 
Both with light purses, but with spirits gay, 

And hard it were to name the sturdiest drinker. 

Their ale they quaff 'd, 
And as they swigg'd the nappy, 
They both agreed 'tis said, 
That trade was wondrous dead ; 
They joked, sung, laughed, 
And were completely happy. 
Now Dick, the glazier, feels his bosom burn 
To do his friend, Tom Tinker, a good turn ; 
And when the heart to friendship feels inclined, 
Occasion seldom loiters long behind. 
The kettle gaily singing on the fire, 
Gives Dick a hint just to his heart's desire ; 
And while to draw more ale the landlord goes, 
Dick in the ashes all the water throws ; 
Then puts the kettle on the fire again, 
And at the tinker winks, 
As " trade's success ! " he drinks; 
Nor doubts the wish'd success Tom will obtain. 
Our landlord ne'er could such a toast withstand, 
So giving each kind customer a hand, 
His friendship, too, display' d 
And drank " success to trade !" 



364 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

But O, how pleasure vanish'd from his eye, 

How long and rueful his round visage grew, 
Soon as he saw the kettle's bottom fly ; 

Solder the only fluid he could view. 
He rav'd, he caper'd, and he swore, 
And cursed the kettle's body o'er and o'er. 
" Come, come," says Dick, " fetch us, my friend, more ale, 

" All trades, you know, mast live ; 
" Let's drink, ' may trade with none of us e'er fail,' 

" The job to Tom, then give ; 
" And, for the ale he drinks, our lad of metal, 
" Take my word for it, soon will mend the kettle." 
The landlord yields, but hopes 'tis no offence, 
To curse the trade that thrives at his expense. 
Tom undertakes the job ; to work he goes, I 
And just concludes it with the evening's close. 
Souls so congenial had friends Tom and Dick, 

Each might be call'd a loving brother; 
Thought Tom, to serve my friend J know a trick, 
And one good turn, in truth, deserves another. 
Out now he slily slips, 
But not a word he said, 
The plot was in his head, 
And off he nimbly trips, 
Swift to a neighbouring church his way he takes ; 
Nor in the dark, 
Misses his mark, 
But every pane of glass he quickly breaks. 
Back as he goes, 
His bosom glows 
To think how great will be his friend Dick's joy 
At getting so much excellent employ : 
Return'd, he beckoning, draws his friend aside- 
Importance in his face ; 
And to Dick's ear his mouth applied, 

Thus briefly states the case : 
" I 've done your business most complete, my friend ; 
" Each window in the church you've got to mend — 
" Ingratitude's worst curse my head befall, 
" If for your sake I have not broke them all." 



HUMOROUS PIECES. 365 

Tom with surprise sees Dick turn pale, 

Who deeply sighs " O law I" 

Then drops his under jaw, 
And all his powers of utterance fail ; 
At length, friend Dick his speech regained, 
And soon the mystery explained, — 
'' ' You have, indeed, my business done ! 
" And I, as well as you, must run ; 
" For let me act the best I can, 
" Tom, Tom, I am a ruin'd man. 

" Zounds ! zounds ! this piece of friendship costs me dear, 
" I always mend church windows — by the year !" 

Anon. 



THE TOWN AND COUNTRY MICE. 

Once on a time (so runs the fable), 

A country mouse, right hospitable, 

Received a town mouse at his board. 

Just as a farmer might a lord : 

A frugal mouse, upon the whole, 

Yet loved his friend, and had a soul ; 

Knew what was handsome, and would do 't, 

On just occasion, coute quit coute. 

He brought him bacon, nothing lean ; 

Pudding, that might have pleased a dean ; 

Cheese, such as men in Suffolk make, 

But wish'd it Stilton for his sake ; 

Yet, to his guest though no way sparing, 

He eat himself the rind and paring. 

Our courtier scarce could touch a bit, 

But show'd his breeding and his wit : 

He did his best to seem to eat, 

And cried, — " I vow you 're mighty neat : 

" But, my dear friend, this savage scene ! 

" For Heaven's sake, come and live with men : 

" Consider, mice, like men, must die, 

" Both small and great, both you and I ; 

" Then spend your life in joy and sport. 

" This doctrine, friend, I learned at court." 



366 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

The veriest hermit in the nation 

May yield, Heav'n knows, to strong temptation. 

Away they come, through thick and thin, 

To a tall house near Lincoln's Inn : 

'Twas on a night of a debate, 

When all their lordships had sat late. 

Behold the place ! where, if a poet 

Shined in description, he might show it ; 

Tell how the moonbeam trembling falls, 

And tips with silver all the walls ; 

Palladian halls, Venetian doors, 

Grotesco roofs, and stucco floors : 

But let it, in a word, be said, 

The moon was up, and men a-bed, 

The napkins white, the carpet red : 

The guests withdrawn had left the treat, 

And down the mice sat, tete-a-tete. 

Our courtier walks from dish to dish, 

Tastes for his friend of fowl and fish ; 

Tells all their names, lays down the law; 

" Que qa est bon! Ah, goutez qa! 

" That jelly's rich, this malmsey healing ; 

" Pray dip your whiskers and your tail in." 

Was ever such a happy swain ! 

He stuffs and swills, and stuffs again : 

" I 'm quite ashamed — 'tis mighty rude 

" To eat so much — but all 's so good ! 

" I have a thousand thanks to give — 

" My lord alone knows how to live." 

No sooner said, but from the hall 

Rush chaplain, butler, dogs, and all : 

" A rat, a rat ! clap to the door," 

The cat comes bouncing on the floor. 

O for the heart of Homer's mice, 

Or gods to save them in a trice ! 

And when the mice at last had stole, 

With trembling hearts, into a hole, 

" An 't please your honour," quoth the peasant, 

" This same dessert is not so pleasant. 

" Give me again my hollow tree, 

" A crust of bread, and liberty." Pope. 



HUMOROUS PIECES. 367 



THE WELL OF ST. KEYNE. 

A well there is in the west countrie, 

And a clearer one never was seen ; 
There is not a wife in the west countrie 

But has heard of the Well of St. Keyne. 

An oak arid an elm-tree stand beside, 
And behind does an ash-tree grow ; 

And a willow from the bank above 
Droops to the water below. 

A traveller came to the Well of St. Keyne ; 

Joyfully he drew nigh, 
For from cock-crow he had been travelling, 

And there was not a cloud in the sky. 

He drank of the water so cool and clear, 

For thirsty and hot was he; 
And he sat down upon the bank 

Under the willow tree. 

There came a man from the neighbouring town, 

At the Well to fill his pail ; 
On the Well-side he rested it, 

And he bade the stranger hail. 

"Now art thou a bachelor, stranger?" quoth he, 

"For, an if thou hast a wife, 
" The happiest draught thou hast drunk this day, 

" That ever thou didst in thy life. 

" Or has thy good woman — if one thou hast 

"Ever here in Cornwall been ? 
" For, an if she has, I'll venture my life 

" She has drunk of the Well of St. Keyne. 

" I have left a good woman who never was here," 

The stranger he made reply; 
•' But that my draught should be better for that, 

" I pray you answer me why." 



368 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

" St. Keyne," quoth the Cornish-man, " many a time 

" Drank cf this crystal Well, 
" And before the angel summon'd her, 

" She laid on the water a spell : 

" If the husband— of this gifted Well 

" Shall drink before his wife, 
" A happy man henceforth is he, 

" For he shall be master for life. 

" But if the wife should drink of it first, — 

" God help the husband then! " 
"The stranger stoop'd to the Well of St. Keyne, 

" And drank of the water again. 

" You drank of the Well, I warrant, betimes ?" 

He to the Cornish-man said. 
But the Cornish-man smiled as the stranger spoke, 

And sheepishly shook his head. 

" I hasten'd as soon as the wedding was done, 

" And left my wife in the porch : 
" But I' faith ! she had Been wiser than I ; 

" For she took a bottle to church." 

SOUTHEY. 



"VAT YOU PLEASE." 

Some years ago, when civil faction 

Raged like a fury through the fields of Gaul, 

And children, in the general distraction, 

Were taught to curse as soon as they could squall 

When common sense in common folks was dead, 

And murder shew'd a love of nationality, 

And France, determined not to have a head, 

Decapitated all the higher class 

To put folks more on an equality ; 

When coronets were not worth half- a crown, 

And liberty, in bonnet-rouge, might pass 

For Mother Red-cap up at Camden Town ; 



HUMOROUS PIECES. 369 

Full many a Frenchman then took wing, 

Bidding soup-maigre an abrupt farewell, 

And hither came, pell-mell, 

Sans cash, sans clothes, and almost sans everything ! 

Two Messieurs who about this time came over, 
Half- starved, but toujours gai, 
(No weasels e'er were thinner), 
Trudged up to town from Dover ; 
Their slender store exhausted in the way, 
Extremely puzzled how to get a dinner. 
From morn till noon, from noon till dewy eve, 
Our Frenchmen wandered on their expedition ; 
Great was their need, and* sorely did they grieve, 
Stomach and pocket in the same condition ! 
At length by mutual consent they parted, 
And different ways on the same errand started. 

This happen'd on a day most dear 

To epicures, when general use 

Sanctions the roasting of the sav'ry goose. 

Towards night, one Frenchman, at a tavern near, 

Stopp'd, and beheld the glorious cheer ; 

While greedily he snuff" d the luscious gale in, 

That from the kitchen window was exhaling. 

He instant set to work his busy brain, 

And snuff' d and long'd, and long'd and snuff' d again. 

Necessity 's the mother of invention, 

(A proverb I 've heard many mention) ; 

So now one moment saw his plan completed. 

And our sly Frenchman at a table seated. 

The ready waiter at his elbow stands — 

" Sir, will you favour me with your commands ? 

" We 've roast and boil'd, Sir ; choose you those or these?" 

" Sare! you are very good, Sare ! Vat you please" 

Quick at the word, 

Upon the table smokes the wish'd-for bird. 
No time in talking did he waste, 
But pounced pell-mell upon it; 
Drum-stick and merry-thought he pick'd in haste, 
Exulting in the merry thought that won it. 

r5 



370 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Pie follows goose, and after pie comes cheese — 

" Stilton or Cheshire, Sir?" — " Ah! vat you please." 

And now our Frenchman, having ta'en his fill, 

Prepares to go, when — " Sir, your little bill." 

" Ah, vat you 're Bill! Veil, Mr. Bill, good day ! 

" Bon jour, good Villiam." — " No, Sir, stay ; 

" My name is Tom, Sir — you 've this bill to pay." 

" Pay, pay, ma foil 

" I call for noting, Sare — pardonnez-moi ! 

" You bring me vat you call your goose, your cheese, 

" You ask-a-me to eat ; I tell you, Vat you please /" 

Down came the master, each explain'd the case, 

The one with cursing, t' other with grimace ; 

But Boniface, who dearly loved a jest, 

(Although sometimes he dearly paid for it), 

And finding nothing could be done, (you know, 

That when a man has got no money, 

To make him pay some would be rather funny), 

Of a bad bargain made the best, 

Acknowledged much was to be said for it ; 

Took pity on the Frenchman's meagre face, 

And, Briton-like, forgave a fallen foe, 

Laughed heartily, and let him go. 

Our Frenchman's hunger thus subdued, 

Away he trotted in a merry mood ; 

When, turning round the corner of a street, 

Who but his countryman he chanced to meet ! 

To him, with many a shrug and many a grin, 

He told him how he'd taken Jean Bull in ! 

Fired with the tale, the other licks his chops, 

Makes his congee, and seeks this shop of shops. 

Entering, he seats himself just at his ease, 

" What will you take, Sir ?" — " Vat you please. ." 

The waiter turned as pale as Paris plaster, 

And, upstairs running, thus addressed his master : 

" These vile mounseers come over sure in pairs ; 

" Sir, there 's another ' vat you please !' down stairs." 

This made the landlord rather crusty, 

Too much of one thing — the proverb's somewhat musty. 



HUMOROUS PIECES. 371 

Once to be done, his anger didn't touch, 
But when a second time they tried the treason, 
It made him crusty, sir, and with good reason, 
You would be crusty were you done so much. 

There is a kind of instrument 

Which greatly helps a serious argument, 

And which, when properly applied, occasions 

Some most unpleasant tickling sensations ! 

*T would make more clumsy folks than Frenchmen skip, 

'T would strike you, presently — a stout horsewhip. 

This instrument our Maitre d' Hote 

Most carefully concealed beneath his coat ; 

And seeking instantly the Frenchman's station, 

Addressed him with the usual salutation. 

Our Frenchman bowing to his threadbare knees, 

Determined while the iron 's hot to strike it, 

Pat with his lesson answers — " Vat you please !" 

But scarcely had he let the sentence slip, 

Than round his shoulders twines the pliant whip ; 

" Sare, sare I ah, misericorde, paroleu! 

" Oh dear, monsieur, vat make you use me so ? 

" Vat call you dis ? " Oh don't you know ? 

" That's what I please," says Bonny, " how d' ye like it ? 

" Your friend, although I paid dear for his funning, 

" Deserved the goose he gained, sir, for his cunning ; 

" But you, monsieur, or else my time I'm wasting, 

(l Are goose enough and only wanted basting." 

Anon. 



372 



SCENES ARRANGED FROM 
COMEDIES. 



EVERY MAN IN HIS HUMOUR. 

Enter Matthew, Young Kno' well, J. Bobadil. 

Mat. Sir, did your eyes ever taste the like clown of 
him, where we were to-day, Mr. Wellbred's half-brother ? 
I think the whole earth cannot shew his parallel, by this 
day-light. 

Y. Kno. We are now speaking of him. Captain Bob- 
adil tells me, he is fallen foul o' you too. 

Mat. Oh, ay, sir ; he threatened me with the bastinado. 
Bob. Ay, but I think I taught you prevention, this morn- 
ing, for that. You shall kill him, beyond question, if you 
be so generously minded. 

Mat. Indeed, it is a most excellent trick ! 
Bob. Oh, you do not give spirit enough to your motion ; 
you are too tardy, too heavy ! Oh, it must be done like 
lightning; hey! (He practises at a post.) Tut, 'tis nothing 
an't be not done in a — punto ! 

Y. Kno. Captain, did you ever prove yourself upon any 
of our masters of defence here ? 

Bob. I will tell you, sir. They have assaulted me some 
threQ, four, five, six of them together, as I have walked 
alone in divers skirts of the town, where I have driven 
them before me the whole length of a street, in the open 
view of all our gallants, pitying to hurt them, believe me. 
Yet all this lenity will not overcome their spleen ; they 
will be doing with the pismire, raising a hill a man may 
spurn abroad with his foot, at pleasure. By myself I could 
have slain them all, but I delight not in murder. I am 



SCENES ARRANGED FROM COMEDIES. 373 

loth to bear any other than this bastinado for them : yet I 
hold it good policy not to go disarmed, for, though 1 be 
skilful, 1 may be oppressed with multitudes. 

Y. Kno. Ay, believe me, may you, sir ; and, in my conceit 
our whole nation should sustain the loss by it, if it 
were so. 

Bob. Alas, no ! What's a peculiar man to a nation ? 
Not seen. 

Y. Kno. Oh, but your skill, sir ! 

Bob. Indeed, that might be some loss ; but who respects 
it ? I will tell you, sir, by the way of private, and under 
seal, I am a gentleman, and live here obscure, and to my- 
self: but were I known to his majesty, and the lords, 
observe me ; I would undertake, upon this poor head and 
life, for the public benefit of the state, not only to spare 
the entire lives of his subjects in general, but to save the 
one half, nay, three parts of his yearly charge in holding 
war, and against what enemy soever. And how would I 
do it, think you ? 

Y. Kno. Nay, I know not, nor can I conceive. 

Bob. Why, thus, sir. I would select nineteen more to 
myself; gentlemen they should be, of a good spirit, strong, 
and able constitution ; I would choose them by an instinct, 
a character that I have ; and I would teach these nineteen 
the special rules ; as your Punto, your Reverso, your 
Stoccata, your Tmbrocata, your Passada, your Montonto ; 
till they could all play very near, or altogether, as well as 
myself. This done, say the enemy were forty thousand 
strong ; we twenty would come into the field the tenth of 
March, or thereabouts; and we would challenge twenty of 
the enemy ; they could not, in their honour, refuse us ! 
Well, we would kill them ; challenge twenty more, kill 
them ; twenty more, kill them ; twenty more, kill them 
too ; and thus would we kill every man his twenty a day, 
That's twenty score ; twenty score, that's two hundred ; 
two hundred a-day, five days a thousand: forty thousand ; 
forty times five, five times forty, two hundred days kills 
them all up by computation. And this I will venture my 
poor gentlemanlike carcass to perform, provided there be 
no treason practised upon us, by fair and discreet manhood, 
that is, civilly by the sword. 



374 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Y. Kno. Why, are you so sure of your hand, captain, at 
all times ? 

Bob. Tut, never miss thrust, upon my reputation with 
you. 

Y. Kno. I would not stand in Downright' s state then, an' 
you meet him, for the wealth of any one street in London. 

Bob. Why, sir, you mistake ! If he were here now, by 
this welkin I would not draw my weapon on him ! Let 
this gentleman do his mind : but I will bastinado him, by 
the bright sun, wherever I meet him. 

Mat. Faith, and I'll have a fling at him, at my distance. 
Enter Downright walking behind. 

Y. Kno. Egad ! Look ye where he is ; yonder he goes. 

Down. What peevish luck have I. I cannot meet with 
those bragging rascals. [Exit. 

Bob. It 's not he, is it ? 

Y. Kno. Yes, faith, it is he ! 

Mat. I '11 be hanged, then, if that were he. 

Y. Kno. I assure you that was he. 

Bob. Had I thought it had been he, he must not have 
gone so ; but I can hardly be induced to believe it was he 
jet. 

Y. Kno. That I think, sir. But, see he is come again ! 
Enter Downright. 

Down. Oh, oh ! have I found you ? Come, draw ; to 
your tools. Draw, gipsy, or I '11 thrash you. 

Bob. Gentleman of valour, I do believe in thee, hear 
me ■ 

Down. Draw your weapon, then. 

Bob. Tall man, I never thought on 't till now ; body of 
me ! I had a warrant of the peace served on me even 
now, as I came along, by a water-bearer, this gentleman 
saw it, Mr. Matthew. 

Downright beats him, and disarms him. Matthew runs 
away. 

Down. 'Sdeath, you will not draw, then ? 

Bob. Hold, hold, under thy favour, forbear. 

Down. Prate again, as you like this, you fusty braggard. 
You '11 control the point, you ! Your consort is gone ; 
had he staid he had shared with you, sir. 

[Exit Downright. 



SCENES ARRANGED FROM COMEDIES. 375 

Y. Kno. Twenty, and kill 'em ; twenty more, kill them 
too. Ha ! ha ! 

Bob. Well, sir, bear witness, I was bound to the peace, 
by this good day. 

Y. Kno. No, faith, it 's an ill day, captain ; never 
reckon it other ; but say you were bound to the peace, the 
law allows you to defend yourself; that will prove but a 
poor excuse. 

Bob. I cannot tell, sir. I desire good construction, in 
fair sort. I never sustained the like disgrace, by Jove. 
Sure I was struck with a planet thence 

Y. Kno. No, you were struck with a stick. 

Bob. For I had no power to touch my weapon. 

Y. Kno. Ay, like enough ; I have heard of many that 
have been beaten under a planet. Go, get you to a sur- 
geon. 'Slid, and these be your tricks, your Passados, and 
your Montontos, I'll none of them. 

Bob. Planet-struck, certainly. [Exit Bobadil. 

Y. Kno. O manners ! That this age should bring forth 
such creatures ! Ben Jon son. 



LETHE. 

iEsop and a Frenchman. 

French. Monsieur, votre serviteur ; — pourquoi ne repon- 
dez-vous pas ? — Je dis, que je suis votre serviteur. 

JEsop. I don't understand you, sir. 

French. Ah ! le barbare ! — il ne parle pas Francais ; — 
Vat, sir, you no speak de French tongue ? 

JEsop. No, really, sir, I am not so polite. 

French. En verite, Monsieur iEsop, you have not much 
politesse, if one may judge by your figure and appearance. 

JEsop. Nor you much wisdom, if one may judge of your 
head by the ornaments about it. 

French. Qu'est cela done ? — Vat you mean to front a 
man, sir ? 

jEsop. No, sir. — 'tis to you I 'm speaking. 

French. Vel, sir, — I, not a man ? — Vat is you take me 
for ? Vat, I beast ? Vat, I horse ? Parbleu ! Upon my 



376 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

vard, sir, if you treat a gentilhomme of my rank and 
qualite, comme 9a, — depend upon it, I shall be a little en 
cavalier, vit you. 

JEsop. Pray, sir, of what rank and quality are you ? 

French. Sir, I am a marquis Francais;— j'entends les 
beaux arts, sir; — I have been an avanlurier all over de 
varld, and am at present in Angleterre — in England ; vere 
I am more honore and caress, den ever I was in my own 
countree; or, indeed, any vere else. 

JEiSQj). And pray, sir, what is your business in England ? 

French. I am arrive dere, sir, — pour polir la nation ; — 
de Inglis, have too much a lead in dere heels, and too 
much tought in their head ; so, sir, if I can lighten bote, 
I shall make dem tout-a-fait, Francais, and quite another 
ting. 

JEsop. And pray, sir, in what particular accomplishment 
does your merit consist ? 

French. Sir, I speak de French, — -j'ai bonne addresse, — 
I dance un minuet, — I sing des litel chansons, — and I 
have, — une tolerable assurance: — enfin, sir, — my merit 
consist in one vard, — I am foreignere, — and, entre vous, — 
vile de Inglis be so great a fool, to love de foreignere, 
better dan dem selves, — de foreignere would still be more 
great a fool, did dey not leave dere own country, — vere 
dey have noting at all, — and come to Inglande, vere dey 
vant for noting at all ; — Parbleu, — cela n'est ce pas vrai ? 
Monsieur iEsop. 

^Esop. Well, sir, what is your business with me ? 

French. Attendez un peu ; — you shall hear, sir ; — I am in 
love vid de grande fortune of one Inglis lady ; — and de 
lady, she be in love with my qualite and bagatelles. Now, 
sir, me want twenty or tirty douzains of your vaters, — for 
fear I be oblige to leave Inglande, before I have fini dis 
grande affaire. 

jEsop. Twenty or thirty dozen ? For what ? 

French. For my crediteurs; to make'em forget de vay 
to my logements, — and no trouble me for de future. 

JEsop. What, you have so many creditors ? 

French. So many. Begar, I have 'em, — dans tous les 
quartiers de la ville, — in all parts of the town, fait — 

JEsop. Wonderful and surprising ! 



SCENES ARRANGED FROM COMEDIES. 377 

French. Vonderful ? — Vat is vonderful ? Dat I should 
borrow money ? 

JEsop. No, sir, that any body should lend it you. 

French, En verite, vous vous trompez ; — you do mis- 
take it, mon ami ; if fortune give me no money, nature 
give' me des talents; — j'ai des talents, Monsieur ^Esop, — 
vich are de same ting. Eh, bien done ! — sal I have dis 
twenty or tirty douzains of your vater ? — Oui ? ou non ? 

JEsop. Tis impossible, sir. 

French. Impossible? — pourquoi done ? — Vy not ? 

JEsop. Because, if every fine gentleman who owes 
money should make the same demand, we should have no 
water left for our other customers. 

French. Que voulez vous done, que je fasse ? Yat must 
I do, den, sir. 

JEsop. Marry the lady as soon as you can ; pay your 
debts with part of her portion ; — drink the water to forget 
your extravagancies, — retire with her to your own country, 
and be a better economist for the future. 

French. Go to my own country ! — Je vous demande 
pardon, I had much rather stay vere I am ; I cannot go 
dere upon my vard. 

yEsop. Why not, my friend ? 

French. Entre nous, I had much rather pass for one 
French Marquis in Inglande, keep bonne campagnie, man- 
ger des delicatesses, and do noting at all, dan keep a shop 
en Provence, — couper et frizzer les cheveux, and live upon 
soupe and salade de rest of my life. 

yEsop. I cannot blame you for your choice ; and if other 
people are so blind as not to distinguish the barber from 
the fine gentleman, their folly must be their punishment, 
and you shall take the benefit of the water with them. 

French. Monsieur ^Esop, sans flatterie, ou compliments, 
I am, your very humble serviteur, Jean Friperon, en Pro- 
vence, ou le Marquis Franeais, en Angleterre. 

Foots. 



378 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

SYLVESTER DAGGERWOOD. 

Fustian and Daggerwood discovered — Fustian sitting in 
one chair, Daggerwood asleep in another. The clock 
strikes eleven. 

Fus. Eight, nine, ten, eleven ? Zounds, eleven o'clock, 
and here I have been waiting ever since nine for an inter- 
view with the manager. 

[A servant crosses. 
Hark ye, young man, is your master visible yet ? 

Serv. Sir ? 

Fus. I say, can I see your master. 

Serv. He has two gentlemen with him at present, sir. 

Fus. Ay, the old answer. Who is this asleep here in 
the chair ? 

Serv. Oh, that, sir, is a gentleman who wants to come 
out. 

Fus. Come out ! then wake him, and open the door. 
Gad ! the greatest difficulty in this house is to get in. 

Serv. Ha, ha ! I mean he wants to appear on the stage, 
sir, 'tis Mr. Sylvester Daggerwood, of the Dunstable com- 
pany. 

Fus. O ho ! a country candidate for a London truncheon, 
a sucking Prince of Denmark; he snores like a tinker; 
fatigued with his journey I suppose. 

Serv. No, sir. He has taken a nap in this room for 
these five mornings, but has not been able to obtain an 
audience here yet. 

Fus. No, nor at Dunstable, neither, I take it. 

Serv. I am so loth to disturb him, poor gentleman, that 
I never wake him till a full half-hour after my master is 
gone out. 

Fus. Upon my honour, that 's very obliging ! I must 

keep watch here, I find, like a lynx. Well, friend , 

you 'lllet your master know Mr. Fustian is here, when the 
two gentlemen have left him at leisure. 

Serv. The moment they make their exit. [Exit. 

Fus. Make their exit ! This fellow must have lived here 
some time, by his language, and I '11 warrant him lies by 
rote like a parrot. \_Sits down and pulls out a manuscript.^ 



SCENES ARRANGED PROM COMEDIES. 379 

If I could nail this manager for a minute, I 'd read him 
such a tragedy. 

Dag. [Dreaming. .] Nay, and thou 'It mouth — I '11 rant 
as well as thou. 

Fus. Eh ! he 's talking in his sleep ! Acting Hamlet 
before twelve tallow candles in the country. 

Dag. " To be, or not to be" . . . 

Fus. Yes, he 's at it : let me see. [Turning over the 
leaves of his play. ~\ I think there 's no doubt of its running. 

Dag. [Dreaming.'] " That 's the question" .... who 
would fardels bear. ..." 

Fus. Zounds ! There 's no bearing you ! His grace's 
patronage will fill half the boxes, and I '11 warrant we '11 
stuff the critics in the pit. 

Dag. [Dreaming.] " To groan and sweat 

" When he himself might his quietus make." 

Fus. Quietus ! I wish with all my heart I could make 
yours. The Countess of Crambo insists on the best places 
for the first night of performance : she '11 sit in the stage 
box. 

Dag. [Still dreaming.] " With a bare bodkin !" 

Fus. O, the deuce, there 's no enduring this ! Sir, sir, 
do you intend to sleep any more ? 

Dag. [Waking.] Eh! what? when? 
Methought I heard a voice say, " Sleep no more !" 

Fus. Faith, sir, you have heard something very like it; 
that voice was mine. 

Dag. Sir, I am your servant to command, Sylvester Dag- 
gerwood — whose benefit is fixed for the 11th of June, by 
particular desire of several persons of distinction ; you 'd 
make an excellent Macbeth, sir. 

Fus. Sir! 

Dag. Macbeth doth murder sleep, the innocent sleep, 
balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course — nay, 
and sometimes her first course too ; when a dinner is un- 
avoidably deferred, by your humble servant Sylvester Dag- 
gerwood. 

Fus. I am very sorry, sir, you should ever have occasion 
to postpone so pleasant a performance. 

Dag. Eating, sir, is a most popular entertainment, for 
man and horse, as I may say ; but I am apt to appear nice 



380 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

sir, — and somehow or other, I never could manage to sit 
down to dinner in bad company. 

Fus. Has your company been bad, then, of late, sir ? 

Dag. Very bad indeed, sir — the .Dunstable company, 
where I have eight shillings a week, four bits of candle, 
one wife, three shirts, and nine children. 

Fus. A very numerous family. 

Dag. A crowded house to be sure, sir, but not very pro- 
fitable. Mrs. Daggerwood, a fine figure, but, unfortunately, 
stutters, so of no use in the theatrical line ; children too 
young to make a debut, except my eldest, Master Apollo 
Daggerwood, a youth only eight years old, who has twice 
made his appearance in Tom Thumb, to an overflowing and 
brilliant barn — house, I mean, with unbounded applause. 

Fus. Have you been long on the stage, Mr. Dagger- 
wood ? 

Dag. Fifteen years since I first smelt the lamp, sir ; my 
father was an eminent button maker, at Birmingham, and 
meant me to marry Miss Molly Mop, daughter to the rich 
director of coal works at Wolverhampton ; but I had a 
soul above buttons, and abhorred the idea of a mercenary 
marriage. I panted for a liberal profession, so ran away 
from my father, and engaged with a travelling company of 
comedians. In my travels I had soon the happiness of 
forming a romantic attachment with the present Mrs. 
Daggerwood, wife to Sylvester Daggerwood, your humble 
servant to command, whose benefit is fixed for the 11th of 
June, by desire of several persons of distinction ; so you 
see, sir, I have a taste. 

Fus. Have you ? then sit down and I 11 read you my 
tragedy; I 'm determined some one shall hear it be'fore I 
go out of this house. [Sits down. 

Dag. A tragedy ; sir, I '11 be ready for you in a moment ; 
let me prepare for woe. [Takes out a very ragged pocket- 
handkerchief.'] " This handkerchief did an Egyptian to my 
mother give." 

Fus. Faith, I should think so ; and to all appearance 
one of the Norwood party. 

Dag. Now, sir, for your title, and then for the dramatis 
persona?. 

Fus. The title, I think, will strike ; the fashion of plays, 



SCENES ARRANGED FROM COMEDIES. 381 

you know, is to do away with old prejudices, and to rescue 
certain characters from the illiberal odium with which cus- 
tom has marked them. Thus we have a generous Israelite, 
an amiable cynic, and so on. Now, sir, I call my play "The 
Humane Footpad." 

Dag. What? 

Fus. There 's a title for you ! Is n't it happy ? Eh ! 
how do you like my " Footpad." 

Dag. Humph ! I think he '11 strike — but then he ought 
to be properly executed. 

Fus. Oh, sir, let me alone for that. An exception to 
a general rule is the grand secret of dramatic composition. 
Mine is a free-booter of benevolence, and plunders with 
sentiment. 

Dag. There may be something in that, and for my part, 
I was always with Shakespere — " Who steals my purse, 
steals trash." — I never had any weighty reasons for think- 
ing otherwise. Now, sir, as we say, please to " leave off 
your horrible faces, and begin." 

Fus. My horrible faces ! 

Dag. Come, we '11 to 't like French falconers. 

Fus. [Reading.') Scene first. ... A dark wood, night. 

Dag. A very awful beginning. 

Fus. [Reading.'] The moon behind a cloud. 

Dag. That 's new. An audience never saw a moon be- 
hind a cloud before — but it will be very hard to paint. 

Fus. Don't interrupt ; where was I ? oh ! behind a cloud. 

Dag. "The cloud-capt towers, the gorgeous palaces — " 

Fus. Hey, the deuce ; what are you at ? 

Dig. Beg pardon ; but that speech never comes into my 
head but it runs away with me. Proceed. 

Fus. Enter. [Reading.'] 

Dag. " The solemn temples." 

Fus. Nay, then, I 've done. 

Dag. So have I. I 'm dumb. 

Fus. Enter Egbert musing. [Reading.] 

Dag. O.P? 

Fus. Pshaw ! what does that signify ? 

Dag. Not much. ..." the globe itself" 

Fus. [Reading.] Egbert musing, clouded in night I 
come — 



382 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Dag. [Starting up. ~\ " The cloud-capt towers, the gorge- 
ous palaces, the solemn temples," &c, &c, &c 

Fus. [Gets up.~] He 's mad ! a bedlamite ! raves like a 
Lear, and foams out a folio of Shakespere without drawing 
breath. I 'm almost afraid to stop in the room with him. 

Enter Servant 
Oh ! I 'm glad you're come, friend, now I shall be delivered ; 
your master would be glad to see me, I warrant. 

Serv. My master is just gone out, sir. 

Fus. Gone out ! 

Dag. " Oh, day and night ; but this is wondrous strange." 

Fus. What ! without seeing me, who have been waiting 
for him these three hours ? 

Dag. Three hours ! pugh. I 've slept here these five 
mornings, in this old arm chair. 

Fus. Pretty treatment ! Pretty treatment, truly ! to be 
kept here half the morning, kicking my heels in a manager's 
ante-room, shut up with a mad Dunstable actor. 

Dag. Mad ! Zounds, sir ! I 'd have you to know that, 
" "When the wind is northerly, I know a hawk from a 
handsaw." 

Fus. Tell your master, friend, tell your master, — but no 
matter ; he don't catch me here again, that 's all. I '11 go 
home, turn my play into a pageant, put a triumphal pro- 
cession at the end on 't, and bring it out at one of the 
winter theatres. [Exit. 

Dag. Young man, you know me. I shall come to my 
old chair again to-morrow, — but must go to Dunstable 
the day after, for a week, to finish my engagement. Wish 
for an interview, inclination to tread the London boards, and 
so on. You remember my name — Mr. Sylvester Dagger- 
wood, whose benefit is fixed for the 11th of June, by 
particular desire of several persons of distinction. 

Serv. I shall be sure to tell him, sir. 

Dag. " I find thee apt ; 
" And duller wouldst thou be than the fat weed 
" That rots itself at ease on Lethe's wharf, 
" Wouldst thou not stir in this." Open the street door. 
Go on ! I '11 follow thee. 

COLMAN. 



SCENES ARRANGED FROM COMEDIES. 383 

THE CRITIC. 

First Selection. 
Dangle, Sneer. Enter Servant. 

Sneer. Sir Fretful Plagiary, sir. 

Dang. Beg him to walk up. 

Sneer. You have read the tragedy he has just finished, 
havn 't you ? 

Dang. O yes ; he sent it to me yesterday. 

Sneer. Well, and you think it execrable, don't you ? 

Dang. "Why, between ourselves, egad, I must own — 
though he is my friend — that it is one of the most — He 's 
here — [Aside.'] — finished and most admirable perform — 

Sir Fret. [ Without.'] Mr. Sneer with him, did you say ? 

Enter Sir Fretful Plagiary. 

Dang. Ah, my dear friend ! — Egad, we were just speak- 
ing of your tragedy. — Admirable, Sir Fretful, admirable ! 

Sneer. You never did anything beyond it, Sir Fretful — 
never in your life. 

Sir Fret. You make me extremely happy ; for without a 
compliment, my dear Sneer, there isn't a man in the world 
whose judgment I value as I do yours and Mr. Dangle's. 

Dang. But, Sir Fretful, have you sent your play to the 
manager's yet ? — or can I be of any service to you ? 

Sir Fret. No, no, I thank you : I believe the piece had 
sufficient recommendation with it. — I thank you, though. 
— But come, now, there must be something that you think 
might be mended, eh ? — Mr. Dangle, has nothing struck 
you? 

Dang. Why, faith, it is but an ungracious thing, for the 
most part, to — 

Sir Fret. With most authors it is so, indeed ; they are 
in general, strangely tenacious ! But, for my part, I am 
never so well pleased as when a judicious critic points out 
any defect to me ; for what is the purpose of showing' a 
work to a friend, if you don't mean to profit by his opinion ? 

Sneer. Very true. — Why, then, though I seriously admire 
the piece upon the whole, yet there is one small objection j 
which, if you'll give me leave, I'll mention. 



384 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Sir Fret. Sir, you can't oblige me more. 

Sneer. I think it wants incident. 

Sir Fret, Good Heavens! you surprise me! — Wants 
incident ? 

Sneer. Yes ; I own I think the incidents are too few. 

Sir Fret. Good Heavens ! Believe me, Mr. Sneer, there 
is no person for whose judgment I have a more implicit 
deference. But I protest to you, Mr. Sneer, I am only 
apprehensive that the incidents are too crowded, — My dear 
Dangle, how does it strike you ? 

Dang. Beally I can't agree with my friend Sneer. I 
think the plot quite sufficient ; and the first four acts by 
many degrees the best I ever read or saw in my life. If I 
might venture to suggest anything, it is that the interest 
rather falls off in the fifth. 

Sir Fret. Rises, I believe you mean, Sir. 

Dang. No, I don't, upon my word. 

Sir Fret. Yes, yes, you do, upon my honour ! — it cer- 
tainly don't fall off, I assure you. — No, no ; it don't fall off. 

Dang. Well, Sir Fretful, I wish you may be able to get 
rid as easily of the newspaper criticisms as you do of ours. 

Sir Fret. The newspapers ! Sir, they are the most 
villanous — licentious — abominable — infernal — Not that I 
ever read them — no — I make it a rule never to look into a 
newspaper. 

Dang. You are quite right ; for it certainly must hurt an 
author of delicate feelings to see the liberties they take. 

Sir Fret, No, quite the contrary ! Their abuse is, in 
fact, the best panegyric — I like it of all things. An 
author's reputation is only in danger from their support. 

Sneer. Why that's true — and that attack, now, on you 
the other day — 

Sir Fret. What? Where? 

Dang. Ay, you mean in a paper of Thursday: it was 
completely ill-natured, to be sure. 

Sir Fret. O so much the better. — Ha ! ha ! ha ! I 
wouldn't have it otherwise. 

Dang. Certainly, it is only to be laughed at ; for — 

Sir Fret. You don't happen to recollect what the fellow 
said, do you ? 

Sneer. Pray, Dangle — Sir Fretful seems a little anxious— 



SCENES ARRANGED FROM COMEDIES. 385 

Sir Fret. O lud, no ! — anxious ! — not I,— not the least, 
— I, — but one may as well hear, you- know. 

Dang. Sneer, do you recollect ? — [Aside to Sneer.] — 
Make out something. 

Sneer. [Aside to Dangle.] I will. — [Aloud.] Yes, yes ; 
I remember perfectly. 

Sir Fret. Well, and pray now — not that it signifies — 
what might the gentleman say ? ,. 

Sneer. Why, he roundly asserts that you have not the 
slightest invention or original genius whatever ; though 
you are the greatest traducer of all other authors living. 

Sir Fret. Ha ! ha ! ha ! — very good ! 

Sneer. That as to comedy, you have not one idea of your 
own, he believes, even in your common-place-book — where 
stray jokes and pilfered witticisms are kept with as much 
method as the ledger of the lost and stolen office. 

Sir Fret. Ha ! ha ! ha !— very pleasant ! 

Sneer. Nay, that you are so unlucky as not to have the 
skill even to steal with taste :— that you glean from the 
refuse of obscure volumes, where more judicious plagiarists 
have been before you ; so that the body of your work is a 
composition of dregs and sentiments — like a bad tavern's 
worst wine. 

Sir Fret. Ha ! ha ! 

Sneer. In your more serious efforts, he says, your bom- 
bast would be less intolerable, if the thoughts w r ere ever 
suited to the expression ; but the homeliness of the senti- 
ment stares through the fantastic encumbrance of its fine 
language, like a clown in one of the new uniforms ! 

Sir Fret. Ha! ha! 

Sneer. In short, that even the finest passages you steal 
are of no service to you ; for the poverty of your own 
language prevents their assimilating ; so that they lie 
on the surface like lumps of marl on a barren moor, en- 
cumbering what it is not in their power to fertilise. 

Sir Fret. [After great agitation.'] Now, another person 
would be vexed at this. 

Sneer. O but I wouldn't have told you — only to divert 
you. 

Sir Fret. I know it — I am diverted. — Ha ! ha ! ha ! — • 



386 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

not the least invention ! — Ha ! ha ! ha ! — very good ! — 
very good ! 

Sneer. Yes — no genius ! Ha! ha! ha! 

Dang. A severe rogue ! Ha ! ha ! ha ! But you are 
quite right, Sir Fretful, never to read such nonsense. 

Sir Fret. To be sure — for if there is anything to one's 
praise, it is a foolish vanity to be gratified at it; and, if it 
is abuse, — why one is always sure to hear of it from one 
confounded good-natured friend or another ! 

Sheridan. 



THE CRITIC. 

Second Selection. 

Dangle, Sneer. Enter Puff. 

Dang. My dear Puff! 

Puff. My dear Dangle, how is it with you ? 

Dang. Mr. Sneer, give me leave to introduce Mr. Puff 
to you. 

Puff. Mr. Sneer is this ? — Sir, he is a gentleman whom 
I have long panted for the honour of knowing — a gentle- 
man whose critical talents and transcendent judgment — 

Sneer. Dear sir — 

Dang. Nay, don't be modest, Sneer; my friend Puff 
only talks to you in the style of his profession. 

Sneer. His profession ! 

Puff. Yes, sir ; I make no secret of the trade I follow : 
among friends and brother authors, Dangle knows I love 
to be frank on the subject, and to advertise myself 
viva voce. I am, sir, a practitioner in panegyric, or, to 
speak more plainly, a professor of the art of puffing, at 
your service — or any body else's. 

Sneer. Sir, you are very obliging !— I believe, Mr. Puff, 
I have often admired your talents in the daily prints. 

Puff. Yes, sir, I flatter myself I do as much business in 
that way as any six of the fraternity in town. Very hard 
work all the summer, friend Dangle, — never worked harder ! 
But, hark 'ee, — the winter managers were a little sore, I 
believe. 



SCENES ARRANGED FROM COMEDIES. 387 

Dang. No ; I believe they took it all in good part. 

Puff. Ay ! then that must have been affectation in them ; 
for, egad, there were some of the attacks which there was 
no laughing at ! 

Sneer. Ay, the humorous ones. — But I should think, 
Mr. Puff, that authors would in general be able to do this 
sort of work for themselves. 

Puff. Why, yes — but in a clumsy way. Besides, we 
look on that as an encroachment, and so take the opposite 
side. I dare say, now, you conceive half the very civil 
paragraphs and advertisements you see, to be written by the 
parties concerned, or their friends ? No such thing : nine 
out of ten manufactured by me in the way of business. 

Sneer. Indeed ! 

Puff. Even the auctioneers now — the auctioneers, I say 
— though the rogues have lately got some credit for their 
language — not a particle of the merit theirs : take them 
out of their pulpits, and they are as dull as catalogues ! — 
No, sir ; 'twas I first enriched their style — 'twas I first 
taught them to create a delightful vicinage without the 
assistance of a neighbour ; or fix the temple of Hygeia in 
the fens of Lincolnshire ! 

Dang. I am sure you have done them infinite service ; 
for now, when a gentleman is ruined, he parts with his 
house with some credit. 

Sneer. Service ! if they had any gratitude, they would 
erect a statue to him ; they would figure him as a presiding 
Mercury, the god of traffic and fiction, with a hammer in 
his hand instead of a caduceus. — But pray, Mr. Puff, what 
first put you on exercising your talents in this way ? 

Puff. Egad, sir, sheer necessity ! — the proper parent of 
an art so nearly allied to invention. You must know, Mr. 
Sneer, that from the first time I tried my hand at an ad- 
vertisement, my success was such, that for some time after 
I led a most extraordinary life indeed ! 

Sneer. How, pray. 

Puff. Sir, I supported myself two years entirely by my 
misfortunes. 

Sneer. By your misfortunes ! 

Puff. Yes, sir, assisted by long sickness, and other occa- 
sional disorders ; and a very comfortable living I had of it. 



388 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Sneer, From sickness and misfortunes ! You practised 
as a doctor and an attorney at once ? 

Puff. No, egad ; both maladies and miseries were my 
own. 

Sneer. Hey ! what the plague ! 

Dang. Tis true, i' faith. 

Puff. Hark'ee ! — By advertisements — To the charitable 
and humane ! and To those whom providence hath blessed with 
affluence ! 

Sneer. Oh, I understand you. 

Puff. And, in truth, I deserved what I got ; for I sup- 
pose, never man went through such a series of calamities 
in the same space of time. Sir, I was five times made a 
bankrupt, and reduced from a state of affluence, by a train 
of unavoidable misfortunes : then, sir, though a very in- 
dustrious tradesman, I was twice burned out, and lost my 
little all, both times: that told very well ; fori had the 
case strongly attested, and went about to collect the sub- 
scriptions myself. 

Dang. Egad, I believe that was when you first called 
on me. 

Puff. In November last? — O no; I was at that time a 
close prisoner in the Marsh alsea, for a debt benevolently 
contracted to serve a friend. I was afterwards twice 
tapped for the dropsy, which declined into a very profitable 
consumption. I was then reduced to — O no — then, I be- 
came a widow with six helpless children, after having had 
eleven husbands pressed. 

Sneer. And you bore all with patience, I make no doubt ? 
Puff. Why, yes ; though I made some occasional at- 
tempts atfelo de se ; but as I did not find those rash actions 
answer, I left off killing myself very soon. Well, Sir, at 
last, what with bankruptcies, fires, gouts, dropsies, im- 
prisonments, and other valuable calamities, having got 
together a pretty handsome sum, I determined to quit a 
business, which had always gone rather against my con- 
science, and in a more liberal way, still to indulge my 
talents for fiction and embellishments, through my favourite 
channels of diurnal communication — and so, sir, you have 
my history. 
Sneer. Most obligingly communicative indeed! and 



SCENES ARRANGED FROM COMEDIES. 389 

your confession, if published, might certainly serve the 
cause of true charity, by rescuing the most useful chan- 
nels of appeal to benevolence from the cant of imposition. 
But, surely, Mr. Puff, there is no great mystery in your 
present profession. 

Puff. Mystery, sir ! I will take upon me to say, the 
matter was never scientifically treated nor reduced to rule 
before. 

Sneer. Reduced to rule ? 

Puff. O lud, sir, you are very ignorant, I am afraid ? — 
Yes, sir, puffing is of various sorts ; the principal are, the 
puff direct, the puff preliminary, the puff collateral, the 
puff collusive, and the puff oblique, or puff by implication. 
These all assume, as circumstances require, the various 
forms of "letter to the editor," "occasional anecdote," 
" impartial critique," " observation from correspondent," 
or " advertisement from the party." 

Sneer. And do you think there are any who are in- 
fluenced by this ? 

Puff. O lud, yes, sir ! the number of those who undergo 
the fatigue of judging for themselves is very small indeed. 

Sneer. Sir, I am completely a convert both to the im- 
portance and ingenuity of your profession ; and now, sir, 
there is but one thing which can possibly increase my 
respect for you, and that is, your permitting me to 
be present this morning at the rehearsal of your new 
trage — 

Puff. Hush, for heaven's sake! — My tragedy ! — Egad, 
Dangle, I take this very ill : you know how apprehensive 
I am of being known to be the author. 

Dang. V faith I would not have told — but it 's in the 
papers, and your name at length in the " Morning 
Chronicle." 

Puff. Oh ! those abominable editors never can keep a 
secret ! — Well, Mr. Sneer, no doubt you will do me great 
honour— I shall be infinitely happy — highly flattered — 

Bang. I believe it must be near the time — shall we go 
together ? 

Puff. No ; it will not be yet this hour, for they are 
always late at that theatre : besides, I must meet you there, 
for I have some little matters here to send to the papers, 



390 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

and a few paragraphs to scribble before I go. (Looking 
at memorandums) Here is "A conscientious balcer, on the 
subject of the army bread " ; and " A detester of visible brick- 
work, in favour of the new-invented stucco " ; both in the style 
of Junius, and promised for to-morrow. The Thames 
navigation too is at a stand. Misomud or Anti-shoal must 
go to work again directly. — Here, too, are some political 
memorandums — I see, ay — To take Paul Jones, and get the 
Indiamen out of the Shannon — reinforce Byron — compel the 
Dutch to — so ! — I must do that in the evening papers, or 
reserve it for the " Morning Herald" ; for I know that I 
have undertaken to-morrow, besides, to establish the 
unanimity of the fleet in the " Public Advertiser," and to 
shoot Charles Fox in the " Morning Post." So, egad, I 
havn't a moment to lose ! 

Dang. Well, we '11 meet in the green room. 

Sheridan. 



THE HEIR AT LAW. 

First Selection. 
Enter Doctor Pangloss and Waiter. 

Pan. Let the chariot turn about. Doctor Pangloss in a 
lord's chariot ! " Curru portatur eodem." Juvenal. — Hem ! 
Waiter ! 

Wait. Sir. 

Pan. Have you any gentlemen here who arrived this 
morning ? 

Wait. There's one in the house now, sir. 

Pan. Is he juvenile ? 

Wait. No, sir ; he's Derbyshire. 

Pan. [Laughing~\. He ! he ! he ! Of what appearance is 
the gentleman ? 

Wait. Why, plaguy poor, sir. 

Pan. " I hold him rich al had he not a sherte." — Chaucer. 
Hem ! Denominated the Honorable Mr. Dowlas ? 

Wait. Honorable ! — He left his name plain Dowlas at 
the bar, sir. 

Pan. Plain Dowlas, did he ? That will do. " For all the 
rest is leather " 



SCENES ARRANGED FROM COMEDIES. 391 

Wait. Leather, sir ? 

Pan. " And prunella." Pope. — Hem ! Tell Mr. Dowlas, 
a gentleman requests the honor of an interview. 

Wait. This is his room, sir. He has but just stepped 
into our parcel warehouse ; he '11 be with you directly. 

[Exit.'] 

Pan. Never before did honor and affluence let fall such 
a shower on the head of Doctor Pangloss ! Fortune, I 
thank thee ! Propitious goddess, I am grateful ! I, thy 
favored child, who commenced his career in the loftiest 
apartment of a muffin-maker in Milk Alley ! Little did I 
think — "good easy man!" Shakespere — Hem! — of the 

riches and literary dignity which now 

Enter Dick Dowlas. 
My pupil ! 

Dick [Entering']. Well, where is the man that wants 

[Seeing Pangloss] Oh ! you are he, I suppose. 

Pan. I am the man, young gentleman. "Homo sum." 
Terence. — Hem ! Sir, the person who now presumes to 
address you is Peter Pangloss ; to whose name, in the col- 
lege of Aberdeen, is subjoined LL. D., signifying Doctor 
of Laws ; to which has been recently added the distinction 
of A double S- — the Roman initials for a Fellow of the 
Society of Arts. 

Dick. Sir, I am your most obedient, Richard Dowlas, to 
whose name, in his tailors bill, is subjoined DR., signifying 
Debtor ; to which are added, L. S. D., — the Roman initials 
for pounds, shillings, and pence ! 

Pan. [Aside]. Ah! this youth was doubtless designed 
by destiny to move in the circles of fashion ; for he's dipped 
in debt, and makes a merit of telling it. 

Dick. But what are your commands with me, doctor ? 

Pan. I have the honor, young gentleman, of being de- 
puted an ambassador to you from your father. 

Dick. Then you have the honor to be ambassador of as 
good-natured an old fellow, as ever sold a ha'porth of 
cheese in a chandler's shop ! 

Pan. Pardon me, if, on the subject of your father's 
cheese, I advise you, to be as mute as a mouse in one for 
the future ! T were better to keep that " alta mente repostum." 
Virgil. — Hem ! 



392 



THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 



Dick. Why, what's the matter? — Any misfortune? — 
Broke, I fear. 

Pan. No, not broke; but his name, as 'tis customary in 
these cases, has appeared in the Gazette. 

Dick. Not broke, but gazetted ! Why, zounds 

Pan. Check your passions — learn philosophy. AVhen 
the wife of the great Socrates threw a — hem ! — threw a 
tea-pot at his erudite head, he was as cool as a cucumber. 
When Plato 

Dick. Hang Plato ! — what of my father ? 

Pan. Don't curse Plato : the bees swarmed round his 
mellifluous mouth as soon as he was swaddled. " Cum in 
cunis apes in labellis consedissent . . ." Cicero. — Hem ! 

Dick. I wish you had a swarm round yours, with all my 
heart ! Come to the point. 

Pan. In due time. But calm your choler. " Ira furor 
hrevis est..." Horace. — Hem! [Producing a letter']. 
Read this ! 

Dick [Snatching the letter, breaking it open, and reading"] . 
" Dear Dick, — This comes to inform you I am in a perfect 
state of health, hoping you are the same." Ah, that's the 

old beginning. " It was my lot last week to he made " 

Ay, a bankrupt, I suppose ! " To be made a " What? 

" To be made a [spelling] P. E. A. R." A pear ! to be 
made a pear ! What the deuce does he mean by that ? 

Pan. A peer — a peer of the realm. His lordship's or- 
thography is a little loose ; but several of his equals coun- 
tenance the custom. Lord Loggerhead always spells phy- 
sician with an F. 

Dick. A peer ! what, my father ? I'm electrified ! — Old 
Daniel Dowlas made a peer ! But let me see. [Reading.] 
" A pear of the realm. — Lawyer Ferret got me my tittle — " 

Titt oh, title! " And an estate of fifteen thousand per 

annum, by making me out next of kin to old Lord Duberly, 

because he died without without hair." 'Tis an odd 

reason, by the bye, to be next of kin to a nobleman, because 
he died bald ! 

Pan. His lordship means heir — heir to his estate. We 
shall meliorate his style speedily. " Reform it altogether." 
Shakespere. — Hem ! 

Dick [Reading]. " I send my carrot " Carrot! 



SCENES ARRANGED FROM COMEDIES. 393 

Pan. [Laughing']. He! he! he! Chariot, his lordship 
means. " Chariot — a little coach." Johnson. — Hem ! 

Dick. " With Doctor Pangloss in it." 

Pan. That's me. 

Dick. " Respect him, for he's an LL. D., and, more- 
over, an A double S." [They bow.'] 

Pan. His lordship kindly condescended to insert that at 
my request. 

Dick. "And I have made him your tutorer, to mend your 
cakelology." 

Pan. Cacology — from K<xkoq "malus", and Aoyog "ver- 
bum." Vide Lexicon. — Hem ! 

Dick. " Come with the Doctor to my house in Hanover 
Square." Hanover Square! "/ remain, your affectionate 
father to command, — Duberly." 

Pan. That's his lordship's title. 

Dick. It is? 

Pan. It is. Waiter ! 

Dick. That's right ; tell him to pop my clothes and linen 
into the carriage ; they are in that bundle. 

Enter Waiter. 

Pan. Waiter, put all the Honorable Mr. Dowlas' clothes 
and linen into his father's, Lord Duberly's, chariot. 

Wait. Where are they all, sir ? 

Pan. All wrapped up in the Honorable Mr. Dowlas' 
pocket-handkerchief. 

Dick. See 'em safe in, doctor ; I will be with you directly. 

[Exit Dick.] 

Pan. I go, most worthy pupil. 

COLMAN. 



THE HEIR AT LAW. 

Second Selection. 

Enter Stedfast. 

Ste. A noble house, faith ! and bespeaks some of that 
stately dignity in the owner, which my friend Harry hinted 
to me. — His Lordship, I warrant, is as stiff as buckram, 

s 5 



394 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

with a pompous display of language, that puzzles a plain 
man to keep pace with him. 

Enter John. 

John. My lord's compliments, sir, and he '11 he with you 
in the twinkling of a bedpost. [Exit. 

Ste. Zounds ! that 's the oddest phrase, for a fine spoken 
peer, I ever met with ! The ignorance of the servant, I 
suppose. — These blockheads never know how to deliver a 
message. — Oh ! here he comes. 

Enter Lord Duberly. 

Your lordship's most obedient servant. [Bows. 

Dub. [Bowing vulgarly]. Sir, you 're kindly welcome. 

Ste. [Aside.] Kindly welcome ! Condescending at least ; 
but not quite so dignified as I expected. — [Aloud] I am a 
rough traveller, my lord, ungifted with your lordship's flow 
of diction ; and, having real business, 1 trust that, without 
further preface, it may plead my apology. 

Dub. Ay, ay ; business is business ; and fine words, you 
know, butter no parsnips. 

Ste. [Aside.] Butter no parsnips! — Why, he's sneering 
at my plainness ; or, I have mistaken the person — or — 
[Aloud.] I have the honour, I think, of addressing Lord 
Duberly ? 

Dub. To be sure you have ; as sure as eggs is eggs. — 
Come, take a chair, muster. — Mayhap you may choose a 
morsel of summut ? [They sit. 

Ste. Not anything ; I — 

Dub. Don't say no. A drop of wine, now ; or a sneaker 
of punch; or — 

Ste. Nothing, my Lord. [Aside.] I am thunderstruck ! 

Dub. Well, now, then, for this here bit o' business. 

Ste. I have had some fears, my lord, that I might be too 
abrupt in the disclosure ; but since this introduction — 

Dub. Oh, rot it ! I never was for no long rigmaroles, 

not I ! An honest man's meaning needs no flourishes 

Honesty is like a good piece of English roast beef, Muster 
Stedfast : it lacks little garnish, and the more plainer the 
more palatabler ; that's my sentiment. 

Ste. I admire your sentiment, my lord ; [Aside.] but I 



SCENES ARRANGED FROM COMEDIES. 395 

can't say much for your language ! [Aloud.'] I must inform 
your Lordship, that no great length of time has elapsed 
since I left ... do not be agitated. . . Quebec, in America. 

Dub. A Yankee doodle, mayhap. 

Ste. A Yankee doo ... [Rising.] I am not an American, 
my lord. 

Dub. [Rising.] No offence to you ; but, seeing you have 
got a tawnyish tinge, I thought you might be a little out- 
landish. 

Ste. I shall ever be proud, my lord, in being able to say 
that I am an Englishman : but I should suppose any person, 
recently arrived from the country I have named, must sen- 
sibly interest your feelings. 

Dub. Interest my... [Aside.] Why, what 's he at ? If I 
seem not to understand, now, I shall make some plaguy 
hole in my manners, I warrant. 

Ste. I perceive, by your silence, that your lordship is af- 
fected A person in your situation cannot naturally be 

otherwise. 

Dub. [Aside."] Then it 's the fashion, I find, for a peer 
to be in a pucker when any body comes from Quebec, in 
America. 

Ste. Pray inform me, my lord, have you received any 
letter from your son since he wrote to advise you that he 
had finished the business which induced you to send him 
out, and that he was immediately preparing to meet you 
in London ? 

Dub. Since that ? No, to be sure. . . .Why, lord love you ! 
he set out directly arter it, on purpose to come. 

Ste. And your lordship has heard no news from any of 
his fellow-passengers ? 

Dub. Fellow- passengers ? No, not I ; neither inside nor 
out. 

Ste. [Aside.'] Inside nor out ! Tis plain, however, that 
we are all supposed to have gone to the bottom.... [A loud.] 
Know, then, my lord, I was his fellow-passenger. 

Dub. Was you ? You are just come up, then, it seems. 

Ste. [Aside.] Come up ! This is an easy way of talking 
to a man supposed to be drowned. ... [A loud.] I am here, 
you see, my lord ; but, Providence be praised ! it was never 
my fate to go down. 



396 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Dub. Well, well, that 's no matter of mine. Your fate 
may have laid another way, to be sure, as you say. 

Ste. [Aside.'] Another way ! Zounds ! he can't dare to 
insinuate that I was born to be hanged ! He appears the 
most ignorant, unfeeling, — [Aloud.'] Hear me, my lord. — 
Has your son ever been dear to you ? 

Dub. Plaguy dear, indeed,' Muster Stedfast. — Only ax 
Doctor Pangloss. 

Ste. An intimate, I suppose, to whom your lordship has 
unburdened your mind in private. 

Dub. Yes ; he mends my cakelology every morning ; and 
is, moreover, a great Philosopher. 

Ste. On such an occasion, a father might well call in 
philosophy to his assistance. 

Dub. I hired him on purpose. 

Ste. Hired him ! [Aside.] Hired a philosopher to console 
him for the death of his son ! Delicacy is superfluous here, 
I see. — [Aloud.] In short, my lord, I come to inform you, 
that your son, lost as he has been to the world, has newly 
and unexpectedly entered into life. 

Dub. Well, and what then ? 

Ste. [Aside.] What then ? The brutal apathy in this 
post of a peer makes me ready to beat him. — [Aloud.] — 
Why, then, he has this day arrived in town — here, in this 
very metropolis. 

Dub. Why, what signifies a cock-and-a-bull story about 
what I know already ? 

Ste. Know it ! It must then be by inspiration. — By what 
supernatural sign have you discovered his arrival ? 

Dub. What sign ? Why, a Blue Boar. 

Ste. My lord ! my lord ! ignorance — little, indeed, from 
the account I received from a blindly affectionate youth, 
did I expect to find it here ! Ignorance may palliate mean- 
ness and buffoonery, and merely meet contempt ; but want 
of feeling excites indignation. — You have shocked me, and 
I leave you. — From exalted rank, like yours, my lord, men 
look for exalted virtue ; and. when these are coupled, they 
command respect, and grace each other ; but the coronet 
which gives and receives splendour when fixed on the brow 
of merit, glitters on the worthless head like a mark of dis- 
grace, to render vice, folly, and inhumanity conspicuous. 

[Exit. 



SCENES ARRANGED FROM COMEDIES. 397 

Dub. That there chap's mad. — He has put me all of a 
twitter. — If my lady had happened to be here, I'm sure 
she'd have perspired with fear. — [Calling.'] John ! 

Enter John. 

John. My lord. 

Dub. Has the porter let out that there man ? 

John. Yes, my lord. 

Dub. Never let him clap his ugly mug into these here 
doors again ! — He 's as mad as any poor soul under a statue 
of lunacy. — Shut the doors — d'ye hear ? [Exit John.] 
Odd rabbit it! if peers are to be frightened in this here 
fashion, I'd rather serve soap and candles again in comfort 
at Gosport ! Colman. 



THE HEIR AT LAW. 

Third Selection. 
Enter Henry Morland and Stedfast. 

Ste. Be more yourself, Henry. Firmness, in the moment 
of disappointment. 

Mor. Disappointment ! 'Tis torture ! it racks me ! — 
Caroline fled, no one knows whither ! unprotected ! per- 
haps exposed to want, too ! to biting penury ! The account, 
though confused, which I gathered last night from the un- 
feeling wretch in possession of the late Mr. Dormer's house 
— Why not have gone to my father's ? Caroline might 
there have relied on an asylum. 

Ste. Umph ! — Perhaps not. 

Mor. Oh, Stedfast ! how little you know of my worthy 
father's heart ! 

Ste. Yet, I have had a specimen. 

Mor. Well, but you saw my father ? 

Ste. I did. 

Mor. And he received you with that complacency so 
friendly a messenger deserved ? 

Ste. Why, to say the truth, I found none of that stately 
dignity about him which you led me to expect. 



398 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Mor. To you, of course, when you explained the purpose 
of your visit, he would throw that aside. The tenderness 
of the father softened the austerity of his habits ; and his 
language came warm from the heart, 

Ste. Upon ray word, 't would puzzle me to tell where his 
language came from ; but, to do him justice (notwithstand- 
ing his harangues in the house of peers, which you talked 
of J, his language was as little parliamentary, as any language 
I ever heard in my life. 

Mor. Oh ! yours was no meeting of formality. Business, 
like yours, called for no pomp of words on either side. 

Ste. Words ! no; so his lordship seemed to think, when 
he told me they buttered no parsnips. 

Mor. My father ? You jest, sure ! 

Ste. Indeed, I do not ; and I am afraid, my dear young 
friend, your ardent feelings have painted the parental affec- 
tion of Lord Duberly in warmer colors than it merits. 

Mor. Good heaven ! What do you mean ? 

Ste. To be plain — he received the account of his lost son's 
arrival with more than coldness. 

Mor. Oh ! you mistook my dear father's manner. 

Ste. Nothing could be less equivocal. He treated me 
with — . But that doesn't signify. When I introduced 
myself, by informing him that I came from Quebec 

Mor. Aye, that must have excited his attention. He 
made a thousand inquiries ? 

Ste. No faith ! only one. 

Mor. What was that ? 

Ste. Psha ! trivial — mere ribaldry ! Deuce take it ! I'm 
ashamed, for his sake and yours, to mention it. 

Mor. Nay, nay ; I entreat you, tell me. 

Ste. Why, he asked if — psha ! — if I was a Yankee-Doodle, 
if you must have it 1 

Mor. You astonish me ! 

Ste. Not more than I was astonished. In short, instead 
of finding the fond, anxious, agitated father, I met a 
man, reckless of his child's fate, and treating the friend, 
who brought the news of his son's preservation, with levity 
and insult. 

Mor. Impossible ! 'tis not in his nature ! 

Ste. Nay — even with buffoonery. 



SCENES ARRANGED FROM COMEDIES. 399 

Mor. Take care, Stedfast ! you may have misconceived ; 
but I must not have my father's character made an ill- 
timed sport. 

Ste. Nay, 'tis sportive enough in itself, for that matter. 

Mor. Sportive ! 

Ste. Yes — beyond comprehension. He deals in witch- 
craft, it seems ; for he was even jocular enough to tell me, 
that he had a familiar, in the shape of a Blue Boar, who 
had given him intelligence of your arrival. T confess I was 
shocked. 

Mor. As I am, Mr. Stedfast, shocked at your attempt, 
in a moment like this, to trifle with the feelings of a friend, 
and endeavour to sully a venerable character, too well estab- 
lished to be tainted by the breath of misrepresentation ! 

Ste. Why, zounds ! I tell you that Lord Duberly- 

Mor. Lord Duberly, sir, is as incapable of the conduct 
and language you have described, as I am incapable of 
hearing you without resentment. 

Ste. Resentment ! — You are warm, Mr. Morland. 

Mor. I have reason, sir. Look at the man ! look at Lord 
Duberly ! — His very countenance contradicts the assertion ! 

Ste. Why, I don't know. I believe, since you say it, 
that " gentleman" was once written legibly on his brow ; but, 
hang me ! if time has not scratched out the writing as 
thoroughly as ever writing was scratched out in the world ! 

Mor. This conduct of yours shall not go unpunished, Mr. 
Stedfast, 

Ste. Unpunished, young man ! 

Mor. No, by Heaven I Such a gross aspersion of my 
good and worthy father shall be answered with the life of 
that man 

Ste. Who lately saved yours, Henry ? 

Mor. Mr. Stedfast, I— 4^ I 

Ste. Young man, 'tis well for us that winters enough 
have passed over my head, to make my blood flow in a 
temperate current. Did it run riot, like yours, we might 
now be cutting one another's throats ! Would it please you, 
think you, to have done me that office ? 

Mor. Please me ! — It makes me shudder ! 

Ste. Yet this, now, is what the world calls satisfaction ! 
I trust I am as little daunted with big words, and a stern 



400 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

look, as most men ; but the truest courage, Henry, is found- 
ed on reason ; — and were the head oftener permitted to 
check the passions of the heart, there would be fewer fatal 
encounters on foolish causes; and the peace of many a parent, 
wife, and child, might remain unbroken ! 

Moi\ O Stedfast ! The man who reasons thus could 
surely, never mean to sport with my anxieties ! There must 
be some mistake ! Pray, pardon me, and accompany me to 
my father's: — assist me in unravelling this mystery, which 
confounds me. Can you forgive my heat? 

Ste. From the very bottom of my heart, Henry ; for, how - 
ever rash in itself, the impulse was filial piety, and that, 
with me, will amply excuse it. Colman. 



THE LIAR. 

Enter Young Welding and Papillion. 

Young W. And I am now, Papillion, perfectly equipped ? 

Pap. Personne mieux. Nobody better. 

Young W. My figure ? 

Pap. Fait a peindre. 

Young W. My air ? 

Pap. Libre. 

Young W. My address ? 

Pap. Parisienne. 

Young W. My hat sits easily under my arm ; not like 
the draggled tail of my tattered academical habit. 

Pap. Ah ! bien autre chose. 

Young W. How long have you left Paris, Papillion ? 

Pap. Twelve, — dirteen year. 

Young W. I can't compliment you upon your progress 
in English. 

Pap. The accent is difficile. 

Young W. But here you are at home. 

Pap. Cest vrai. 

Young W. No stranger to fashionable places. 

Pap. Sans doute. 

Young TV. Well, then, open your lecture ; and, d'ye 
hear, Papillion, as you have the honour to be promoted 



SCENES ARRANGED FROM COMEDIES. 401 

from the mortifying condition of an humble valet to the 
important charge of a private tutor, let us discard all dis- 
tance between us. See me ready to slake my thirst at 
your fountain of knowledge, my Magnus Apollo. 

Pap. Here, then, I disclose my Helicon to my poetical 
pupil. 

Young W. Hey, Papillion ? 

Pap. Sir ? 

Young W. What is this ? — why you speak English ? 

Pap. Without doubt. 

Young W. Bat like a native ? 

Pap, To be sure. 

Young W. And what am I to conclude from this ? 

Pap. But to be better understood, I believe it will be 
necessary to give you a short sketch of the principal inci- 
dents of my life. 

Young W. Pr'ythee do. 

Pap. Why, then, you are to know, sir, that my former 
situation has been rather above my present condition ; 
having once sustained the dignity of sub -preceptor to one 
of those cheap rural academies in which our county of 
Yorkshire is so plentifully stocked. 

Young W. Why this disguise ? — Why renounce your 
country ? 

Pap. There, sir, you make a little mistake ; it was my 
country that renounced me. 

Young W. Explain. 

Pap. In an instant. Upon quitting the school and 
coming to town, I got recommended to the compiler of the 
. Monthly Review. 

Young W. What an author too ? 

Pap. Oh, a voluminous one ; a whole region of the 
helles lettres fell under my inspection ; physics, divinity, 
mathematics, my mistress managed herself. There, sir, 
like another Aristarch, I dealt out fame and ruin at plea- 
sure. In obedience to the caprice and command of my 
master, I have condemned books I never read, and 
applauded the fidelity of a translation without understand- 
ing a syllable of the original. But it would not answer. 
Notwithstanding what we say, people will judge for them- 
selves ; our work hung upon hand, and all I could get from 



402 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

the publisher was four shillings a week and my small beer. 
Poor pittance ! 

Young W. Poor indeed ! What was your next change ? 

Pap. I was mightily puzzled to choose, when chance 
threw an old friend in my way, which quite retrieved my 
affairs. 

Young W. Pray who might he be ? 

Pap. A little bit of a Swiss genius, who had been French 
Usher with me at the same school in the country. I opened 
my melancholy story to him over three pennyworth of 
a-la-mode beef, in a cellar in St. Ann's. My little foreign 
friend, pursed up his lanthorn jaws, and with a shrug of 
contempt, said, "Ah! Maitre Jean, — vous n'avez pas la" 
politique ; — you have no finesse : — to thrive here, you must 
study the folly of your own country." " How, monsieur?" 
" Taisez vous ; — keep a your tongue. Autrefois I teach 
you speak French, now I teach you to forget English. Go 
vid me to my logement, I vil give you proper dress ; — den 
go present yourself to de same hotels, — de very same 
house, — you vil find all de doors dat was shut in your face 
as footman Anglais, vil fly open demselves to a French 
valet- de-chambre ! " 

Young W. Well, Papillion. 

Pap. Gad, sir, I thought it was but an honest artifice, 
so I determined to follow my friend's advice. 

Young W. Did it succeed ? 

Pap. Better than expectation. My tawny face, long 
queue, and broken English, was a passe-partout. Besides, 
when I am out of place, this disguise procures me many 
resources. 

Young W. How ? 

Pap. Why, at a pinch, sir, I am either a teacher of 
tongues, — a friseur, — a dentist, — or a dancing master : — 
these, sir, are hereditary professions to Frenchmen. But 
now, sir, to the point — as you were pleased to be so candid 
with me, I was determined to have no reserve with you. 
You have studied books, — I have studied men ; — you want 
advice, and I have some at your service. 

Young W. Proceed. 

Pap. You will pardon my presumption, but you have, 
my good master, one little foible that I could wish you to 
correct. 



SCENES ARRANGED FROM COMEDIES, 403 

Young W. What is it ? 

Pap. You have, sir, a lively imagination, — with a most 
happy turn for invention. 

Young W. Well? 

Pap. But now and then in your narratives you are 
hurried by a flow of spirits to border upon the improbable — 
a little given to the marvellous. 

Young IV. I understand you;— that I am somewhat 
given to lying. 

Pap. Oh ! pardon me, sir, I don't say that. No ! no ! 
only a little apt to embellish, that 's all : — and yet this 
talent of yours is the very soul and spirit of poetry; and 
why it should not be the same in prose I can't, for my 
life, determine. 

Young W. You would advise me, then, not to be quite 
so poetical in prose. 

Pap. Why, sir, if you would descend a little to the 
grovelling comprehension of the million, I think it would 
be as well. 

Young W. I believe you are right. But we shall be 
late, d' ye hear, Papillion ? If at any time you find me 
too poetical, give me a hint, your advice shall not be 
thrown away. Foote. 



THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 

Sir Charles Cropland and Warner. 

War. Your honour is right welcome into Kent. I am 
proud to see Sir Charles Cropland on his estate again. I 
hope you mean to stay on the spot for some time, Sir 
Charles ? 

Si?* Cha. Avery tedious time. Three days, Mr. Warner. 

War. Ah, good sir ! things would prosper better if you 
honoured us with your presence a little more. I wish you 
lived entirely upon the estate, Sir Charles. 

Sir Cha. Thank you, good Warner ; but men of fashion 
find it very hard to live upon their estates. 



404 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

War. The country about you so charming ! 

Sir Cha. Look ye, Warner, I must hunt in Leicestershire ; 
for that's the thing-. In the frosts and the spring months 
I must be in town at the clubs ; for that's the thing. In 
summer I must be at the watering-places ; for that's the 
thing. Now, Warner, under these circumstances, how is 
it possible for me to reside upon my estate ? For my 
estate being in Kent 

'War. The most beautiful part of the country. 

Sir Cha. Hang beauty ! we don't mind that in Leicester- 
shire. My estate, I say, being in Kent 

War. A land of milk and honey ! 

Sir Cha. I hate milk and honey. 

War. A land of fat ! 

Sir Cha. Hang your fat ! listen to me — my estate being 
in Kent 

War. So woody ? 

Sir Cha. Hang the wood! No — 'that's wrong. For 
it's convenient ; I am come on purpose to cut it. 

War. Ah ! I was afraid so ! Dice on the table, and 
then the axe to the root ! Money lost at play ; and then, 
good lack ! the forest groans for it. 

Sir Ch. But you are not the forest, and why the deuce 
do you groan for it ? 

War. I heartily wish, Sir Charles, you may not encumber 
the goodly estate. Your worthy ancestors had views for 
their posterity. 

Sir Cha. And I shall have views for my posterity ; I 
shall take 'special care the trees shan't intercept their 
prospect. 

Enter Servant. 

Serv. Mr. Ollapod,- the apothecary, is in the hall, Sir 
Charles, to enquire after your health. 

Sir Cha. Show him in. [Exit Servant.] The fellow 's 
a character, and treats time as he does his patients. He 
shall kill a quarter of an hour for me, this morning. In 
short, Mr. Warner, I must have three thousand pounds in 
three days. Fell timber to that amount, immediately. 'Tis 
my peremptory order, sir. 

War. I shall obey you, Sir Charles ; but with a heavy 



SCENES ARRANGED FROM COMEDIES. 405 

heart ! Forgive an old servant of the family, if he grieves 
to see you forget some of the duties for which society has 
a claim upon you. 

Sir Cha. What do you mean by duties ? 

War. Duties, Sir Charles, which the extravagant man of 
fashion can never fulfil. Such as to support the dignity 
of an English landholder, for the honour of old England ; 
to promote the welfare of his honest tenants ; and to 
succour the industrious poor, who naturally look up to him 
for assistance. But I shall obey you, Sir Charles. [Exit. 

Sir Cha. A tiresome old blockhead ! But where is this 
Ollapod ? His jumble of physic and shooting may enliven 
me. Ha! Ollapod! 

Enter Ollapod. 

Olla. Sir Charles, I have the honour to be your slave. 
Hope your health is good. Been a hard winter here. Sore 
throats were plenty ; so were woodcocks. Flushed four 
couple, in a half-mile walk from our town, to cure Mrs. 
Quarles of a quinsey. May coming on soon, Sir Charles 
— season of delight, love, and campaigning ! Hope you 
come to sojourn Sir Charles. Should n't be always on the 
wing — that's being too nighty. He! he! he! Do you 
take, good sir ? Do you take ? 

Sir Cha. O yes, I take. But, by the cockade in your 
hat, Ollapod, you have added lately, it seems, to your 
avocations. 

Olla. He ! he ! yes, Sir Charles, I have now the honour 
to be cornet in the volunteer association corps of our town. 
It fell out unexpected — pop on a sudden — like the going 
off of a field-piece, or an alderman in an apoplexy! 

Sir Cha. Explain. 

Olla. Happening to be at home — rainy day — no going 
out to sport, blister, shoot, nor bleed — was busy behind 
the counter — you know my shop, Sir Charles — Galen's head 
over the door — new gilt him last week, by-the-bye — looks 
as fresh as a pill. 

Sir Cha. Well, no more on that head now — proceed. 

Olla. On that head ! he ! he ! he ! That's very well, 
very well, indeed ! Thank you, good sir, I owe you one. 



406 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Churchwarden Posh, of our town, being ill of an indiges- 
tion, from eating three pounds of measly pork, at a vestry 
dinner, I was making up a cathartic for the patient ; 
when who should strut into the shop but Lieutenant Grains, 
the brewer — sleek as a dray-horse — in a smart scarlet 
jacket, tastily turned up, with a rhubarb -coloured lapelle. 
I confess his figure struck me. I looked at him as I was 
thumping the mortar, and felt instantly inoculated with a 
military ardour. 

Sir Cha. Inoculated ! I hope your ardour was of a 
favourable sort. 

Olla. Ha! ha! That's very well — very well, indeed! 
Thank you, good sir, I owe you one. We first talked of 
shooting. He knew my celebrity that way, Sir Charles. 
I told him the day before I had killed six brace of birds. 
I thumped on at the mortar. We then talked of physic. 
I told him the day before I had killed — lost, I mean — six 
brace of patients. I thumped on at the mortar, eyeing him 
all the while, for he looked very flashy, to be sure ; and I 
felt an itching to belong to the corps. The medical and 
military — both deal in death, you know — so 'twas natural. 
He ! he ! Do you take, good sir ? do you take ? 

Sir Cha. Take ? O nobody can miss. 

Olla. He then talked of the corps itself; said it was 
sickly ; and, if a professional person would administer to 
the health of the association — dose the men and drench 
the horse — he could, perhaps, procure him a cornetcy. 

Sir Cha. Well, you jumped at the offer. 

Olla. Jumped ! I jumped over the counter. Kicked 
down Churchwarden Posh's cathartic into the pocket of 
Lieutenant Grain's smart coloured jacket, tastily turned up 
with a rhubarb-coloured lapelle ; embraced him and his 
offer ; and I am now Cornet Ollapod, apothecary, at the 
Galen's Head, of the association corps of cavalry, at your 
service. 

Sir Cha. I wish you joy of your appointment. You may 
now distil water for the shop, from the laurels you gather 
in the field. 

Olla. Water for — Oh ! laurel water — he ! he ! — Come 
that's very well — very well, indeed ! Thank you, good sir, 



SCENES ARRANGED FROM COMEDIES. 407 

I owe you one. Why, I fancy fame will follow, when the 
poison of a small mistake I made has ceased to operate. 

Sir Cha. A mistake ? 

Olla. Having to attend Lady Kitty Carbuncle, on a 
grand field-day, I clapped a pint bottle of her ladyship's 
diet-drink into one of my holsters; intending to proceed 
to the patient after the exercise was over. I- reached the 
martial ground, and jalaped — galloped I mean — wheeled 
and flourished with great eclat — but, when the word " fire " 
was given, meaning to pull out my pistol. in a deuce of a 
hurry, I presented, neck-foremost, the infernal diet-drink of 
Lady Kitty Carbuncle ; and the medicine being unfor- 
tunately fermented by the jolting of my horse, it forced 
out the cork, with a prodigious pop, full in the face of my 
gallant commander. 

Sir Cha. Any new faces since I left the country ? 

Olla. Nothing worth an item. Nothing new arrived — 
except Miss Emily Worthington. 

Sir Cha. The very girl whom I had lost sight of in 
London. But I am in a flame — in a fever — till I hear 
further. 

Olla. In a fever ! I'll send you physic enough to fill a 
baggage waggon. 

Sir Cha. [Aside. ~\ So a long bill is the price of his polite- 
ness. 

Olla. You need not bleed ; but you must have medicine. 

Sir Cha. If I must have medicine, Ollapod, I fancy I 
shall bleed pretty freely. 

Olla. He ! he ! Come, that's very well, very well in- 
deed. I thank you, good sir ; I owe you one. Before 
dinner a strong dose of coloquintida, senna, scammony, and 
gambouge. 

Sir Cha. Oh ! hang scammony and gambouge. 

Olla. At night a narcotic— next day, saline draught, 
camphorated jalap. 

Sir Cha. Zounds ! only go, and I'll swallow your whole 
shop. 

Olla. Galen forbid ! Tis enough to kill every customer 
I have in the parish. Then we'll throw in the bark. By- 
the-bye, talking of bark, Sir Charles, that Juno of yours is 
the prettiest pointer bitch — 



408 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST 

Sir Cha. Well — well — she is yours. 

Olla. My dear Sir Charles ! such sport next shooting 
season ! If I had but a double-barrelled gun ! 

Sir Cha. Take mine, that hangs in the hall. 

Olla. My dear Sir Charles ! Here's a morning's work! 
senna and coloquintida — [Aside. 

Sir Cha. Well, be gone then. [Pushing him. 

Olla. I 'm off. Scammony and gambouge — 

Sir Cha. Nay, fly man ! 

Olla. I do, Sir Charles. A double-barrelled gun — I fly 
— the bark — I 'm going —Juno, the bitch — a narcotic — 

Sir Cha. O ! the deuce. [Pushing him off. 

COLMAN. 



THE REVIEW. 

Deputy Bull. Enter Thomas. 

Thomas. Here 's a man, sir, come after the footman's 
place. 

Bull. I hope he is civiller than the last fellow. Does he 
look modest ? 

Thomas. Oh yes, sir, he 's an Irishman. 

Bull. Well, we are used to them in the Bull family. 
Let me see him. [Exit Thomas]. I hope I shall be able 
to keep a servant at last. They are all so confounded saucy 
to me, because I have been a grocer. 

Enter Looney Mactwolter. 

So, you want a place. 

Loo. You may say that, with your'own ugly mouth. 

Bull. My ugly mouth ! You have been in service 
before ? 

Loo. Does a duck swim ? 

Bull. Who have you lived with ? 

Loo. I lived with the Mactwolters nineteen years, and 
then they turned me off. 

Bull. The Mactwolters ! Why did they turn you off? 

Loo. They went dead. 

Bull. That 's an awkward way of discharging a servant. 
Who were they ? 



SCENES ARRANGED FROM COMEDIES. 409 

Loo. My own beautiful father, and most beautiful mo- 
ther. They died of a whiskey fever, and left myself, 
Looney Mactwolter, heir to their estate. 

Bull. They had an estate it seems. 

Loo. Yes ; they had a pig. 

Bull. Umph ! But they died, you say, when you were 
nineteen. What have you been doing ever since ? 

Loo. I'm a physicianer. 

Bull. The deuce you are. 

Loo. Yes; I *m a cow- doctor. 

Bull. And what brought you here ? 

Loo. Hay-making. I've a fork below, hire me, then 
I '11 have a knife to it, and prettily I '11 toss about your 
beef, Mr. Bull. 

Bull. I don't doubt you. This fellow would ram a cart 
load of chuck-steaks down his throat with a paving-rod. 
What can you do as a footman ? Can you clean plate ? 

Loo. Clean a plate ! Botheration, man ! would you hire 
me for your kitchen maid ? I can dirty one with anybody 
in the parish. 

Bull. Do you think now, Looney, you could contrive to 
beat a coat ? 

Loo. Faith can I, in the Connaught fashion. 

Bull. How's that? 

Loo. With a man in it. Och ! Let me alone for 
dusting your ould jacket, Mr. Bull. 

Bull. The deuce take you, I say ! 

Loo. Be aisy, and I '11 warrant we '11 agree. Give me 
what I ax, and we '11 never tumble out about the wages. 

Be- enter Thomas. 

Thomas. Here 's another man come after the place, I 
believe, sir. 

Bull. Another man ! Let me see him. 

[Exit Thomas. 

Loo. Faith, now, you'll bother yourself betwixt us. 
You '11 be like a cat in a tripe-shop, and not know where 
to choose. 



410 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Enter John Lump. 

Lump. Be you Mr. Bull, zur ? 

Bull. Yes ; I am the Deputy. 

Lump. Oh ! if you are na' but the deputy, I '11 bide 
here till I see Mr. Bull himsen. 

Bull. Blockhead ! I am himself— Mr. Deputy Bull. 

Loo. Arrah ! can't you see, man, that this ugly ould 
gentleman is himself ? 

Bull. Hold your tongue. What \s your name ? 

Lump. John. 

Bull. John what ? 

Lump. No; no not John What, but John Lump. 

Bull. And what do you want, John Lump. 

Lump. Why, I 'se come here, zur — but as we be upon 
a bit o' business, I '11 let you hear the long and short on't 
[Drawing a chair and sitting down']. I 'se corned here, 
zur, to hire my sen for your sarvant. 

Bull. Ah ! but you don't expect, I perceive, to have any 
standing wages. 

Loo. [Drawing a chair and sitting down]. Ar'nt you 
a pretty spalpeen, now, to squat yourself down there in the 
presence of Mr. Deputy Bull ? 

Bull. Now here 's a couple of scoundrels ! 

Loo. Don't be in a passion with him. Mind how I '11 
larn him politeness. 

Bull. Get up directly, you villain, or — 

Loo. [Complimenting] Not before Mr. Lump. See how 
I '11 give him the polish. 

Bull. If you don't get up directly I '11 squeeze your 
heads together like two figs in a jar. 

Lump. [Rising] Oh, then, it be unmannerly for a foot- 
man to rest himsen, I suppose ! 

Loo. [Rising] To be sure it is; no servant has the bad 
manners to sit before his master, but the coachman. 

Lump. I ax your pardon, zur ; I 'se na' but a poor 
Yorkshire lad, travelled up from Doncaster Races; I 'se 
simple, but I 'se willing to learn. 

Bull. Simple and willing to learn ? Two qualities, 
Master Lump, which will answer my purpose. 

[Lump retires. 



SCENES ARRANGED FROM COMEDIES. 411 

Loo Mind what you 're after going to do, Mr. Deputy- 
Bull. If you hire this fellow from the Donkey Races, when 
Looney Mactwolter is at your elbow, I '11 make free to 
say, you 're making a complete Judy of yourself. 

Bull. You do make free with a vengeance. Now I '11 
make free to say, get out of my house you impudent cow- 
doctor ! 

Loo. You 're no scholard, or you 'd lam how to bemean 
yourself to a physicianer. Arrah ! Isn't a cow-doctor as 
good as you, you ould figman. 

Bull. Old figman ! This rascal, too, quizzing my origin. 
Get down stairs, or- — 

Loo. Don't come over me with the pride of your stair- 
case, for hadn't my father a comfortable ladder to go up and 
down stairs with ? Take Mr. Lump into your dirty sarvice, 
and next time I 'm after meeting him I '11 thump Mr. Lump, 
or Mr. Lump shall thump Mr. Looney Mactwolter. 

Colman. 



THE RIVALS. 

First Selection. 

Captain Absolute and Fag. 

Fag. Sir, there is a gentleman below desires to see you. 
— Shall I show him into the parlour ? 

Abs. Ay — you may. But stay; who is it, Fag? 

Fag. Your father, sir. 

Abs. You puppy, why didn't you show him up directly ? 
[Exit Fag.] Now for a parental lecture. I hope he has 
heard nothing of the business that has brought me here — 

Enter Sir Anthony Absolute. 

Sir, I am delighted to see you here, looking so well ! Your 
sudden arrival at Bath made me apprehensive for your 
health. 

Sir Anth. Very apprehensive, I dare say, Jack. — -What, 
you are recruiting here, eh ? 

Abs. Yes, sir, I am on duty. 



412 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Sir Anth. Well, Jack, I am glad to see you, though I 
did not expect it; for I was going to write to you on a 
little matter of business. — Jack, I have been considering 
that I grow old and infirm, and shall probably not trouble 
you long. 

A bs. Pardon me, sir, I never saw you look more strong 
and hearty ; and I pray frequently that you may continue so. 

Sir Anth. I hope your prayers may be heard, with all 
my heart. Well, then, Jack, I have been considering that 
I am so strong and hearty, I may continue to plague you a 
long time. Now, Jack, I am sensible that the income of 
your commission, and what I have hitherto allowed you, is 
but a small pittance for a lad of your spirit. 

Abs. Sir, you are very good. 

Sir Anth. And it is my wish, while yet I live, to have 
my boy make some figure in the world. I have resolved, 
therefore, to fix you at once in a noble independence. 

Abs. Sir, your kindness overpowers me ; — I cannot ex- 
press the sense I have of your munificence. — Yet, sir, I 
presume you would not wish me to quit the army ? 

Sir Anth. O that shall be as your wife chooses. 

Abs. My wife, sir ! 

Sir Anth, Ay, ay, settle that between you — settle that 
between you. 

Abs. A wife, sir, did you say ? 

Sir Anth. Ay, a wife — why, did not I mention her before ? 

Abs. Not a word of her, sir. 

Sir Anth. Odd so! — I must'nt forget her, though. — 
Yes, Jack, the independence I was talking of is by a mar- 
riage — the fortune is saddled with a wife — but I suppose 
that makes no difference. 

Abs. Sir ! sir ! — you amaze me ! 

Sir Anth. Why, what's the matter with the fool ? Just 
now you were all gratitude and duty. 

Abs. I was, sir, — you talked to me of independence and 
a fortune, but not a word of a wife. 

Sir Anth. Why, what difference does that make ? Odds 
life, sir ! if you have the estate, you must take it with the 
live stock on it, as it stands. 

Abs. Pray, sir, who is the lady ? 



SCENES ARRANGED FROM COMEDIES. 413 

Sir Anth. What 's that to you, sir ? — Come, give me 
your promise to love and to marry her directly. 

Abs. Sure, sir, this is not very reasonable, to summon 
my affections for a lady I know nothing of ! 

Sir Anth. I am sure, sir, 'tis more unreasonable in you 
to object to a lady you know nothing of. 

Abs. Then, sir, I must tell you plainly, once for all, that 
on this point I cannot obey you. 

Sir Anth. Hark'ee, Jack ; — I have heard you for some 
time with patience — I have been cool — quite cool ; but 
take care — you know I am compliance itself when I am 
not thwarted ; — no one more easily led, when I have my 
own way; — but don't put me in a frenzy. 

Abs. Sir, I must repeat it — in this I cannot obey you. 

Sir Anth. Now, hang me ! if ever I call you Jack again 
while I live ! 

Abs. Nay, sir, but hear me. 

Sir Anth. Sir, I won't hear a word — not a word ! not 
one word ! — so give me your promise by a nod — and I'll 
tell you what, Jack, — I mean, you dog — if you don't, by — 

Abs, What, sir, promise to link myself to some mass of 
ugliness ! to — 

Sir Anth. 'Zounds ! sirrah ! the lady shall be as ugly as 
I choose : she shall have a hump on each shoulder ; she 
shall be as crooked as the crescent ; her one eye shall roll 
like the bull's in Cox's Museum ; she shall have a skin like 
a mummy, and the beard of a Jew — she shall be all this, 
sirrah ! — yet I will make you ogle her all day, and sit up 
all night to write sonnets on her beauty. 

Abs. This is reason and moderation indeed ! 

Sir Anth. None of your sneering, puppy ! No grinning, 
jackanapes ! 

Abs. Indeed, sir, I never was in a worse humour for 
mirth in my life. 

Sir Anth. 'Tis false, sir, I know you are laughing in your 
sleeve ; I know you '11 grin when I am gone, sirrah ! 

Abs. Sir, I hope I know my duty better. 

Sir Anth. None of your passion, sir ! none of your 
violence, if you please ! — It won't do with me, I promise 
you. 

Abs. Indeed, sir, I never was cooler in my life. 



414 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Sir Anth. 'Tis a confounded lie ! — I know you are in a 
passion in your heart ; I know you are, you hypocritical 
young dog! but it won't do. 

Abs. Nay, sir, upon my word — 

Sir Anth. So you will fly out ! can't you be cool like 
me ? What good can passion do ? — Passion is of no ser- 
vice, you impudent, insolent, overbearing reprobate ! — 
There, you sneer again ! don't provoke me ! — but you rely 
upon the mildness of my temper — you do, you dog ! — you 
play upon the meekness of my disposition ! — Yet take care 
— the patience of a saint may be overcome at last ! — But 
mark ! I give you six hours and a half to consider of this: 
if you then agree, without any condition, to do everything 
on earth that I choose, why — I may in time forgive you. 
If not, zounds ! don't enter the same hemisphere with me ! 
don't dare to breathe the same air, or use the same light 
with me; but get an atmosphere and a sun of your own! 
I'll strip you of your commission; I'll lodge a five-and- 
threepence in the hands of trustees, and you shall live on 
the interest. — I '11 disown you ! I '11 disinherit you ! and 
hang me ! if ever I call you Jack again ! [Exit. 

Abs. Mild, gentle, considerate father — I kiss your hands ! 
I dare not trust him with the truth ! 

Re-enter Fag. 

Fag. Assuredly, sir, your father is wrath to a degree ; 
he comes down stairs eight or ten steps at a time — mut- 
tering, growling, and thumping the banisters all the way : 
I and the cook's dog stand bowing at the door — rap ! he 
gives me a stroke on the head with his cane, bids me carry 
that to my master ; then kicking the poor turnspit into the 
area, curses us all for a puppy triumvirate ! 

Abs. Cease your impertinence, sir, at present. — Did you 
come in for nothing more ? — Stand out of the way ! 

[Pushes him aside, and exit. 

Fag. So ! Sir Anthony trims my master : he is afraid to 
reply to his father — then vents his spleen on poor Fag ! — 
When one is vexed by one person, to revenge one's self on 
another, who happens to come in the way, is the vilest 
injustice ! Ah! it shows the worst temper — the basest — 



SCENES ARRANGED FROM COMEDIES. 41 5 

Enter Boy. 

Boy. Mr. Fag ! Mr. Fag ! Your master calls you. 

Fag. Well, you little dirty puppy, you need not bawl so ! 
— The meanest disposition ! the — 

Boy. Quick, quick, Mr. Fag ! 

Fag. Quick ! quick ! you impudent jackanapes ! Am I 
to be commanded by you, too ? you little impertinent, in- 
solent, kitchen-bred — [Exit, kicking and beating him. 

Sheridan. 



THE RIVALS. 

Second Selection. 
Acres and Sir Lucius O'Trigger. 

Sir Luc. Mr. Acres, I am delighted to embrace you. 

Acres. My dear Sir Lucius, I kiss your hands. 

Sir Luc. Pray, my friend, what has brought you so 
suddenly to Bath ? 

Acres. Faith ! I have followed Cupid's Jack-a-lantern, 
and find myself in a quagmire at last. — In short, I have 
been very ill-used, Sir Lucius. I don't choose to mention 
names, but look on me as on a very ill-used gentleman. 

Sir Luc. Pray what is the case ? I ask no names. 

Acres. Mark me, Sir Lucius. I fall as deep as need be 
in love with a young lady — her friends take my part — I 
follow her to Bath — send word of my arrival ; — and receive 
answer, that the lady is to be otherwise disposed of. This, 
Sir Lucius, I call being ill-used. 

Sir Luc. Very ill, upon my conscience. Pray, can you 
divine the cause of it ? 

Acres. Why, there 's the matter ; she has another lover, 
one Beverley, who, I am told, is now in Bath. Odds 
slanders and lies ! he must be at the bottom of it. 

Sir Luc. A rival in the case, is there ? — and you think 
he has supplanted you unfairly ? 

Acres. Unfairly ? — to be sure he has. He never could 
have done it fairly. 

Sir Luc. Then sure you know what is to be done ' 

Acres. Not I, upon my word ! 



416 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Sir Luc. We wear no swords here, but you understand 
me. 

Acres. What ! fight him ! 

Sir Luc, Ay, to be sare : what can I mean else ? 

Acres. But he has given me no provocation. 

Sir Luc. Now, I think he has given you the greatest 
provocation in the world. Can a man commit a more 
heinous offence against another, than to fall in love with 
the same woman ? Oh, by my sword ! it is a most un- 
pardonable breach of friendship. 

Acres. Breach of friendship ! ay, ay ; but I have no ac- 
quaintance with this man. I never saw him in my life. 

Sir Luc. That 's no argument at all — he has the less 
right to take such a liberty. 

Acres. Gad, that 's true — I grow full of anger, Sir Lu- 
cius ! I fire apace ! Odds hilts and blades ! I find a 
man may have a deal of valour in him, and not know it ! 
But couldn 't I contrive to have a little right on my side ? 

Sir Luc. What signifies right, when your honour is 
concerned ? Do you think Achilles, or my little Alexander 
the Great, ever inquired where the right lay ? No, they 
drew their broad swords, and. left the lazy sons of peace to 
settle the justice of it. 

Acres. Your words are a grenadier's march to my heart ! 
I believe courage must be catching ! I certainly do feel a 
kind of valor rising as it were — a kind of courage, as I may 
say, Odds, flints, pans, and triggers! I'll challenge him 
directly. 

Sir Luc. Come, .come, there must be no passion at all in 
the case — these things should always be done civilly. 

Acres. I must be in a passion, Sir Lucius — I must be in 
a rage. Dear Sir Lucius, let me be in a rage, if you love 
me. Come, here *s pen and paper. (Sits down to write). 
I would the ink were red! — Indite, I say indite ! — How 
shall I begin ? Odds bullets and blades ! I '11 write a 
good bold hand, however. 

Sir Luc. Pray compose yourself. 

Acres. Come, now, shall I begin with an oath ? Do, Sir 
Lucius, let me begin with an oath ? 

Sir Luc. Pho ! Pho ! do the thing decently, and like a 
Christian. Begin now — Sir — 



SCENES ARRANGED FROM COMEDIES. 417 

Acres. That 's too civil by half. 

Sir Luc. To prevent the confusion that might arise — 

Acres. Well — 

Sir Luc. From our both addressing the same lady — 

Acres. Ay, there 's the reason — same lady — well — 

Sir Luc. I shall expect the honour of your company — 

Acres. Zounds ! I 'm not asking him to dinner. 

Sir Luc. Pray be easy. 

Acres. Well then, honour of your company — 

Sir Luc. To settle our pretensions — 

Acres. Well. 

Sir Luc. Let me see, ay, King's -Mead- Fields will do — 
in King's- Mead- Fields. 

Acres. So, that 's done. Well, I '11 fold it up presently ; 
my own crest — a hand and dagger shall be the seal. 

Sir Luc. You see now this little explanation will put a 
stop at once to all confusion or misunderstanding that 
might arise between you. 

Acres. Ay, we fight to prevent any misunderstanding. 

Sir Luc. Now, I '11 leave you to fix your own time. 
Take my advice, and you '11 decide this evening if you can ; 
then let the worst come of it, 'twill be off your mind to- 
morrow. 

Acres. Very true. Sheridan. 

THE RIVALS. 

Third Selection. 
Acres and David. 

David, Then, by the mass, sir! I would do no such 
thing — ne'er a Sir Lucius O 'Trigger in the kingdom should 
make me fight when I wa' n't so minded. Oons ! what 
will the old lady say when she hears o't. 

Acres. Ah, David ! if you had heard Sir Lucius ! Odds 
sparks and flames ! he would have roused your valour. 

David. Not he, indeed. I hate such bloodthirsty cor- 
morants. Look 'ee master, if you 'd wanted a bout at box- 
ing, quarterstaff, or short staff, I should never be the man 
to bid you cry off : but for your abominable sharps and 
snaps, I never knew any good come of 'em. 

Acres. But my honour, David, my honour ! I must be 
very careful of my honour. 

t 5 



418 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

David. Ay, by the mass ! and I would be very careful 
of it, and I think in return my honour could n't do less 
than to be very careful of me. 

Acres. Odds blades ! David, no gentleman will ever risk 
the loss of his honour. 

David. I say, then, it would be but civil in honour never 
to risk the loss of a gentleman. Look 'ee, master, this 
honour seems to me to be a marvellous false friend: ay, 
truly, a very courtier-like servant. Put the case, I was a 
gentleman (which, thank heaven, no one can say of me) ; 
well, my honour makes me quarrel with another gentleman 
of my acquaintance. So, we fight (pleasant enough that) ! 
Boh ! I kill him (the more 's my luck). Now, pray who 
gets the profit of it ? Why, my honour. But put the 
case that he kills me : by the mass ! I go to the worms, 
and my honour whips over to my enemy. 

Acres. No, David — in that case, odds crowns and laurels ! 
your honour follows you to the grave. 

David. Now, that 's just the place where I could make 
a shift to do without it. 

Acres. Zounds ! David, you are a coward. It does n't 
become my valour to listen to you. What, shall I disgrace 
my ancestors ? Think of that, David — think what it would 
be to disgrace my ancestors. 

David. Under favour, the surest way of not disgracing 
them is to keep as long as you can out of their company. 
Look 'ee now, master, to go to them in such haste — with an 
ounce of lead in your brains — I should think might as well 
be let alone. Our ancestors are very good kind of folks, 
but they are the last people I should choose to have a 
visiting acquaintance with. 

Acres. But, David, now, you don't think there is such 
very, very, very great danger, hey ? Odds life ! people 
often fight without any mischief done. 

David. By the mass, I think 't is ten to one against you ! 
Oons ! here to meet some lion-headed fellow, I warrant, 
with his horrid double-barrelled swords, and cut-and-thrust 
pistols. Bless us ! it makes me tremble to think o't. 
Those be such desperate bloody-minded weapons ! Well, 
I never could abide 'em — from a child, I never could fancy 
'em. I suppose there a'nt been so merciless a beast in the 
world as your loaded pistol. 



SCENES ARRANGED FROM COMEDIES. 419 

Acres. Zounds ! I won't be afraid ! — odds fire and fury ! 
you shan't make me afraid. Here is the challenge, and I 
have sent for my dear friend Jack Absolute to carry it for 
me. 

David. Ay, i' the name of mischief, let him be the mes- 
senger. For my part, I would n't lend a hand to it for the 
best horse in your stable. By the mass, it don't look like 
another letter ! It is, as I may say, a designing and ma- 
licious-looking letter ; and I warrant, smells of gunpowder 
like a soldier's pouch ! Oons ! I would n't swear it may n't 
go off. 

Acres. Out, you poltroon ! you ha'nt the valour of a 
grasshopper. 

David. Well, I say no more — 'twill be sad news, to be 
sure, at Clod Hall ! but I ha' done. How Phillis will howl 
when she hears of it ! Ay, poor bitch, she little thinks 
what shooting her master 's going after. And I warrant 
old Crop, who has carried your honour field and road, these 
ten years, will curse the hour he was born. [ Whimpering. 

Acres. It won't do, David. I am determined to fight — 
so get along, you coward, while I 'm in the mind. 

Sheridan. 



THE RIVALS. 

Fourth Selection. 
Enter Sir Lucius O'Trigger and Acres, with pistols. 

Acres. By my valour! Then, Sir Lucius, forty yards is a 
good distance. Odds levels and aims ! — I say it is a good 
distance. 

Sir Luc. Is it for muskets or small field-pieces ? Upon 
my conscience, Mr. Acres, you must leave those things to 
me. — Stay now — I '11 show you, — {Measures paces along the 
floor.) there now, that is a very pretty distance — a pretty 
gentleman's distance. 

Acres. Zounds! we might as well fight in a sentry box! I 
tell you Sir Lucius, the farther he is off, the cooler I shall 
take my aim. 

Sir Luc. Faith ! then I suppose you would aim at him 
best of all if he was out of sight ! 



420 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Acres. No, Sir Lucius ; but I should think forty or eight- 
and- thirty yards — 

Sir. Luc. Pho ! pho ! nonsense ! Three or four feet between 
the mouths of your pistols is as good as a mile. 

Acres. Odds bullets, no ! — by my valour ! there is no 
merit in killing him so near : do, my dear Sir Lucius, let 
me bring him down at a long shot : — a long shot, Sir Lu- 
cius, if you love me ! 

Sir Luc. Well, the gentleman's friend and I must settle 
that. — But tell me now, Mr. Acres, in case of an accident, 
is there any little will or commission I could execute for 
you? 

Acres. I am much obliged to you, Sir Lucius — but I 
don't understand — 

Sir Luc. Why, you may think there 's no being shot at 
without a little risk— and if an unlucky bullet should carry 
a quietus with it — I say it will be no time then to be 
bothering you about family matters. 

Acres. A quietus ! 

Sir Luc. For instance, now — if that should be the case — 
would you choose to be pickled and sent home ? — or would 
it be the same to you to lie here in the Abbey ? — I 'm told 
there is very snug lying in the Abbey. 

Acres. Pickled ! — Snug lying in the Abbey ! — Odds tre- 
mors ! Sir Lucius, don't talk so ? 

Sir Luc. I suppose, Mr. Acres, you never were engaged 
in an affair of this kind before. 

Acres. No, Sir Lucius, never before. 

Sir Luc. Ah ! that 's a pity ! — there *s nothing like being 
used to a thing. — Pray now ! how would you receive the 
gentleman's shot ? 

Acres. Odds files ! — I Ve practised that — there, Sir 
Lucius— there. — {Puts himself in an attitude) A side front, 
hey? Odd! I'll make myself small enough : I'll stand edge- 
ways. 

Sir Luc. Now — you 're quite out — for if you stand so 
when I take my aim — [Levelling at him. 

Acres. Zounds ! Sir Lucius — are you sure it is not cocked ? 

Sir Luc. Never fear. 

Acres. But — but— you don't know — it may go off of its 
own head ! 



SCENES ARRANGED FROM COMEDIES. 421 

Sir Luc. Pho ! be easy. Well, now if I hit you in the 
body, my bullet has a double chance — for if it misses a 
vital part of your right side — 'twill be very hard if it don't 
succeed on the left ! 

Acres. A vital part ! 

Sir Luc. But, there — fix yourself so — (Placing him) — 
let him see the broadside of your full front— there — now a 
ball or two may pass clean through your body, and never 
do any harm at all. 

Acres. Clean through me ! — a ball or two clean through 
me! 

Sir Luc. Ay — may they — and it is much the genteelest 
attitude into the bargain. 

Acres. Lookee ! Sir Lucius — I'd just as lieve be shot 
in an awkward posture as a genteel one ; so, by my valour ! 
I will stand edgeways. 

Sir Luc. (Looking at his watch). Sure they don't mean 
to disappoint us — Hah ! — no, faith — I think I see them 
coming. 

Acres. Hey! — what — coming! — 

Sir Luc. Ay. — Who are those yonder getting over the 
stile? 

Acres. There are two of them indeed! — well — let them 
come — hey, Sir Lucius ! — we — we — we — we — won't run. 

Sir Luc. Run ! 

Acres. No — I say— we wont run, by my valour ! 

Sir Luc. What 's the matter with you ? 

Acres. Nothing — Nothing — my dear friend — my dear 
Sir Lucius — but I — I — I don't feel quite so bold, somehow, 
as I did. 

Sir Luc. O fy !— consider your honor. 

Acres. Ay — true — my honor. Do, Sir Lucius, edge in 
a word or two every now and then about my honor. 

Sir Luc. Well, here they 're coming. [Looking. 

Acres. Sir Lucius — if I warn't with you, I should almost 
think I was afraid. — If my valour should leave me ! — Va- 
lour will come and go. 

Sir Luc. Then pray keep it fast while you have it. 

Acres. Sir Lucius — I doubt it is going — yes — my valour 
is certainly going ! — it is sneaking off ! — I feel it oozing out 
as it were at the palms of my hands ! 



422 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Sir Luc Your honor — your honor. — Here they are. 
Acres. O mercy ! — now — that I was safe at Clod Hall 
or could be shot before I was aware! 

Sheridan. 



WHO WANTS A GUINEA? 

Enter Solomon Gundy with a signboard under his arm. 

Heartly. Now, Solomon Gundy, how are they going on 
in the village ? 

Sol. The connagellation has been dreadful, all smother 
and rubbish. 'Tis the greatest calamity to our hamlet since 
my father was schoolmaster. 

Hea. Don't get on the old subject now. We '11 waive 
the schoolmaster till we have more leisure. 

Sol. De toot mong cure, though 't was under him I made 
all my deficiency in the English tongue, before I went to 
France and learnt to parly voo. 

Hea. Well, well, your father has been dead these eleven 
years. 

Sol. Dead as Malbrook. He's more, as the French say, 
which in English means, he is no more. So peace to his 
remainders ! 

Hea. Now tell me of the cottagers. 

Sol. Most of 'em ruined, and nothing to turn their 
hands to. 

Hea. Poor fellows ! 

Sol. Ay ! all poor indigenous pheasants. Thanks to in- 
dustry, I've better luck. I snatched the board from over 
my door, when I was burnt out, and ran off with it under 
my arm. Here it is. [Beads'] " Rats and gentlemen 
catched and waited on, and all other jobs performed by 
Solomon Gundy." [Puts the board down.] 

Hea. You have still a livelihood, Solomon ? 

Sol. Edication and travel fit a man for anything, and 
make him a jolly garsoon. You'd hardly think it, but at 
fourteen years I could read. 

Hea. You don't say so. 

Sol. Fact, upon my patrole ; and any sum in arithmetic 
that didn't demand subtraction, addition, or multiplication, 
I looked upon as a petty kick shose. 



SCENES ARRANGED FROM COMEDTES. 423 

Hea. Why, you are a perfect prodigy of genius. 

bol. I believe I have pick'd up a little ; and the captain 
of the cutter, on our coast, that traded in brandy, taking 
me to Dunkirk for six months, perhaps has given me & jenny 
see quaw, to which the commonality seldom perspire. 

Hea. Who was that captain, Solomon ? 

Sol. Quite the gentleman — an elly gong, as the French 
say; and felt such a sympathy against vulgar custom, house 
officers, he'd have no dealings with them ; so he always 
smuggled. 

Hea. But I hope no lives are lost amongst our neigh- 
bours. 

Sol. Not a Christian soul, except the old village Bull 
and a Porker. Their loss is to be implored, though they 
were but quadlipeds. But a number of accidents— Jacob 
Grull, the hump-back'd taxman, jumped out of his cock-loft 
into the water-tub ; — poor reformed creature ! If we hadn't 
heard him bawling " Fire !" he'd have been drowned. And 
fat Mrs. Doubletun scrambling down a ladder, in her hus- 
band's short frock, to the farm yard, was so pick'd at by 
the cock-turkey, she won't be able to assay ez voo for a fort- 
night. 

Hea. These calamities are not very serious ; — but a num- 
ber of buildings are doubtless destroyed. 

Sol. All down but the house of deception for travellers, 
and the contagious brick messages beyond it. We worked 
hard to save 'em, laboured like gallypot slaves. 

Hea. I will do all in my power to be of service in the 
general calamity. 

Sol. We know that. You are full of amour proper for 
your neighbours as we say at Dunkirk : nobody doubts the 
malevolence of your heart. 

Hea. An hour hence I shall be among you in the village. 

Sol. An hour ! Then your amee who has been overturned, 
will be put out of patience. 

Hea. A friend of mine overturned in the village ? 

Sol. Plump into the horse-pond, shot from a chaise, out 
at elbows, with four posters. Don't be frightened ; he fell 
too much in the mud to be hurt. 

Hea. You're sure he's safe ? 

Sol. As his most sanguinary friend could wish. 



424 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Hea. What's his name ? 

Sol. Can't tell. He's at the Spread Eagle. The carriage 
broken in twenty morso's, I help'd to drag it. No coach- 
maker by, I offered to impair it. The great gentleman 
was daubed and looked like a hog. No servant with him. 
I scraped him. He read my board as I was rubbing him 
down. Wanted to send you a bill?/ — no messenger at hand — 
I've brought it. He gave me a guinea, I called him an 
angel ; he bid me run like a fury. I told him I would : so 
I have, arid there's the contentions. — [Gives a letter. 

Hea. [Beading the letter.'] " Dear Heartly, I have just 
tumbled into my estate. Let none of the villagers know 
who I am till I get to my house, I hate fuss. Don't say I 
am a rich man. Come to me at the alehouse. 

John Tooney." 
I will wait on the gentleman, Solomon, directly. 

Sol. That's just what I should like to do, myself. Speak 
a good word to him for me. Pauvre Solomon Gundy, just 
burnt out, kills vermin, and dresses gentlemen. I know 
he will attend to your imprecations. 

Hea. There's no huriy — he'll stay in the neighbourhood 
some time. 

Sol. Will he ? Take a chateau perhaps. I am up to 
everything about a house. 

Hea. Well, well — follow me, and we'll see what can be 
done for you. 

Sol. I thank your honour, I'm very graceful. If I am 
but burnt in a good place after all, this fire will turn out as 
fine a few de joy of misfortune to me as could possibly be. 
I'll follow your honour. Colman. 



425 



DEBATES. 



ARE THE MENTAL CAPACITIES OF THE 
SEXES EQUAL ? 

The Chairman. Gentlemen, — I feel very highly the 
honour you have done me by placing- me in the chair. I 
will not waste your time, however, by inflicting a speech 
upon you, but will proceed at once to the proper business 
of the meeting. The question we are to discuss is as 
follows [Reads from a roll of paper] : — "Are the mental 
capacities of the sexes equal?" I beg to call upon the 
Opener to commence the debate. I have only to add that 
I hope the discussion will be carried on in a manner befit- 
ting the importance and gravity of the subject. (Loud 
cries of " hear, hear"). {The chairman resumes his seat, 
and the opener rises']. 

The Opener. Sir, in rising to open the question which 
has been put from the chair, I assure you that I feel the 
need of much indulgence, and I hope that I shall not be 
denied it. (Hear, hear). I expect no small amount of 
reproach and contumely for the part I mean to take in this 
debate ; for I know the gallantry of many of my friends 
around me, and I fully make up my mind to smart under 
the weight of it. However, I will meet my fate boldly, at 
all events ; I will declare at once, that I am a believer in the 
mental inferiority of the ladies. (Oh, Oh, met by cries of 
hear, hear) ; and, if my clamorous friends will let me, I 
will endeavour to prove that 1 am right. I will take my 
proofs from history. Which shines the brighter, the male 
sex or the female ? Look among sovereigns — Where is 
the female Csesar ? — the female Alfred ? — the female Alex- 
ander ? Or take legislators — What woman have we to 



426 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

compare with Solon or Lycurgus ? Where are the female 
philosophers, moreover ? Where is their Socrates, their 
Plato, their Newton ? In literature, too, are the great 
names those of the fairer, or the sterner sex ? Homer, 
Shakespeare, Milton, Byron, what lady- writers equal 
these ? (Hear, hear). 

I shall not enter into the philosophical part of the ques- 
tion at all. Facts are the strongest arguments, and these 
I have produced. Besides, I dare say that some of my 
supporters will choose that view of the matter, and into 
their hands I am quite willing to resign it. 

I feel that I should weaken my cause were I to say 
more. I therefore commit the question to your fair and 
fall discussion, quite convinced that a just conclusion will 
at length be arrived at. (Cheers) 

Second Speaker. Sir, my friend, who has just resumed 
his seat, has regarded this question as it is answered by 
history, I will view it by the light of reason and philosophy. 
(Hear, hear). 

I think, then, that women were meant to be inferior to 
men. The female of every kind of animal is weaker than 
the male, and why should a distinction be made with the 
human species ? (Cheers). 

The sphere which the female is called upon to fill, is the 
domestic one. To rule and to command is the sphere of 
man. He is here to govern and to guide. Now, the 
exercise of authority requires greater mental power than 
the duties of the other sex demand ; and I think that man 
would not have been called upon to rule had not greater 
power been conferred upon him. Where would be the 
unutterable delight that now dwells in the magic word 
" Home," if woman were more intellectually subtle than 
she is ? All these true joys would be lost to us ; and 
woman, instead of earning our gratitude and affection by 
creating them, would be studying metaphysics, diving into 
theology, or searching out new stars. (Hear, hear). It 
seems to me that the very happiness of the world depends 
upon the inequalities and differences existing in the minds 
of the sexes, and therefore I shall vote with my friend the 
Opener. (Cheers). 

Third Speaker. Sir, I rise to defend the ladies. (Loud 



DEBATES. 427 

cries of hear, hear). I admit the ability of my two friends 
who have preceded me; but I dispute their arguments, 
and I utterly deny their conclusions. (Cheers). I shall 
deal with the opener only, and leave the other gentleman 
to the tender mercies of succeeding speakers. (Cheers). 

Our friend referred us to history ; very unfortunately, 
I think. He spoke of rulers ; Where is the female Caesar ? 
said he, and the female Alexander ? I am proud to reply — 
Nowhere. (Loud cheers). No, sir, the fair sex can claim 
no such murderers (cheers), no such usurpers (cheers), no 
such enemies of mankind. (Cheers). But I will tell my 
friend what the fair sex can boast : it can boast an Eliza- 
beth, and also a Victoria. (Loud and continued cheering). 
While the ladies can claim such rulers as these, their male 
detractors may keep their Caesars and Alexanders to them- 
selves ; and I for one shall never reclaim them from their 
keeping. (Cheers and laughter). 

I had more to say, sir, but I feel that other speakers 
would occupy your time more profitably, and so I will 
resume my seat. (Cheers). 

Fourth Speaker. Sir, the speaker who has just sat down, 
was scarcely justified in calling his opponents "detractors 
of the ladies ;" such an epithet is scarcely fair (hear), and 
he would prove his point better, by using more moderate 
language. (Hear, hear). He has spoken of Elizabeth and 
Victoria, and I agree in his admiration of those distin- 
guished characters ; but I would just remind him that 
history speaks of a Mary as well as an Elizabeth (hear, 
hear) — of a Cleopatra as well as a Victoria. (Loud cheers.) 
I am not determined, sir, upon which side I shall vote. I 
wait to be convinced; and I assure my friends on both 
sides, that I am quite open to conviction. (Hear, hear), 

Fifth Speaker. Then I, sir, will try to convince my 
friend. I will try to convince him that he should adopt 
the cause of the ladies. The fair sex have not yet had 
justice done them. What is the argument employed to 
prove their inferiority? Simply this — that they are not 
such strong rulers, such learned lawgivers, or such great 
poets. But suppose I grant this ; the sexes may be men- 
tally equal notwithstanding. For, if I can shew that the 
female sex possess qualities which the male sex do not — 



428 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

qualities which, though widely different from those named, 
are quite as valuable to the world ; I establish an argument 
in their favour quite as strong as that against them. (Hear, 
hear). And 1 can prove this. In affection, in constancy, 
in patience, in purity of sentiment, and in piety of life, they 
as far surpass men as men surpass them in mere bodily 
strength. (Loud cheers). And what qualities are superior 
to these ? Is strength of intellect superior to strength of 
heart ? Is the ability to make laws superior to the power 
that wins and keeps affection ? Is a facility' in making 
rhymes superior to sisterly love and maternal solicitude ? 
(Hear, hear). I think, sir, that it is unwise and unfair to 
judge between the two. The spheres of the sexes are 
different, and require different powers ; but though 
different in degree, they may be, and I believe they are, 
fully equal in amount. (Loud and continued cheering). 

Sixth Speaker. Mr. Chairman, my speech shall consist 
of one question. (A laugh.) Woman's brain is smaller than 
man's : now, if, as philosophers tell us, the size of the brain 
is the evidence of intellectual power, is not woman's intel- 
lect necessarily inferior to man's ? (Hear ! hear ! and 
laughter.) 

Seventh Speaker. Sir, my friend who has just sat down, 
gave his speech in a question : I will give him another in 
reply. (Hear! hear!) If the size of the brain is the proof 
of intellectual power, how is it that the calf is more stupid 
than the dog ? (Laughter and cheers.) 

Eighth Speaker. Mr. Chairman, the last speaker's happy 
reply has saved me the necessity of answering the sagacious 
question of the gentleman who spoke before him. (Hear ! 
and a laugh.) 

My friend, the opener of the debate said, rather plau- 
sibly, that as the male sex can boast a Shakespere, a Mil- 
ton, and a Byron, and the other sex cannot, therefore the 
male sex must be superior. It is but a poor argument, 
Sir, when plainly looked at. We should recollect that there 
is but one Shakespere, but one Milton, but one Byron ! Who 
can say that the female sex may not some day surpass these 
writers, famous though they be ? (Hear ! hear!) 

Another gentleman spoke of Philosophers. Let me remind 
him, for he seems to have forgotten, or not to know, — that 



DEBATES. 429 

the female sex can claim a De Stael, a Sommerville, and a 
Martmeau. (Cheers.) 

Not that I would claim for the ladies, for one moment, 
any merit on this ground. I think that scientific and lite- 
rary excellence is by no means a laurel worth their gather- 
ing-. Learning, does not sit gracefully on the female brow : 
— a blue -stocking is proverbially disagreeable. Woman's 
office is to teach the heart, not the mind; and when she 
strives for intellectual superiority, she quits a higher throne 
than ever she can win. (Cheers.) 

Ninth Speaker. Sir, the gentleman who called this a 
question of difference, not amount of intellect, put the question 
to my thinking, in its proper light. I quite agree with the 
opener of the debate, that in mere mental power, in mere 
clearness, force, and intensity of intellect, the male sex is 
unquestionably superior to the female. But, at the same 
time, I can by no means admit that this proves woman to 
be inferior to the other sex. (Cheers.) Much of what man 
has done results from his superior physical strength ; and, 
moreover if man has done great things visibly and mentally 
woman has accomplished great things morally and silently. 
In every stage of society she has kept alive the conscience, 
refined the manners, and improved the taste ; in barbarism 
and in civilisation alike, she has gladdened the homes, and 
purified the hearts of those she has gathered round her. 
(Cheers.) Whilst, therefore, I admit, that in mental 
strength woman is not, and can never be, equal to the 
other sex, I maintain that her superior morality makes the 
balance at least even. (Loud cheers.) 

Tenth Speaker. I am quite ready to concede, Sir, with 
the last speaker, that in the private and domestic virtues 
the female sex is superior to the male : but I cannot go so 
far with him as to say that man is morally woman's in- 
ferior. (Hear ! hear !). For which are the highest moral 
virtues ? Courage, fortitude, endurance, perseverance ; and 
these, I think, man possesses far more prominently than 
woman. Let the field of battle test his courage : with what 
heroic boldness he faces certain death ! His fortitude 
again : what shocks he bears, what bereavements he pa- 
tiently sustains ! Mark his endurance, too. Privation, 
hunger, cold, galling servitude, heavy labor, these he su£ 



430 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

fers oftentimes, without a murmur. (Hear ! hear!). See 
also how he perseveres ! He sets some plan before him. 
Days, months, years, find it still distant, still unwon : he 
continues his exertions, and at last he gains the prize. 
These, Sir, I contend, are amongst the highest moral vir- 
tues, and I think I have shown that the male sex possesses 
them more abundantly than the other. (Cheers.) 

Eleventh Speaker. — Sir, I quite agree with the gentle- 
man who spoke last, that courage, endurance, and fortitude 
are amongst the highest moral virtues ; but I do not agree 
with him when he says that the female sex possesses them 
in an inferior degree to the male. True, man shows his 
courage in the battle-field. He faces death, and meets it 
unshrinkingly. But has not woman courage, quite as 
great? She fights battles, — not a few: oftentimes with 
want, starvation, and ruin : and bravely indeed does she 
maintain her ground. (Hear ! hear !). Far more bravely 
than the man, in fact. The first shock overcomes him at 
once ; when attacked by distress, he is in a moment laid 
prostrate. (Cheers.) Then it is, Sir, that woman's moral 
courage, endurance, and fortitude, shire out the most. 
(Hear! hear!). She sustains, she cheers, she encourages, 
she soothes the other ; nerves him by her example, invigo- 
rates him by her tenderness, and directs him by gentle 
counsel and affectionate encouragement, to put his shoulder 
to the wheel of his broken fortune, and restore himself to 
the position he has lost. (Loud and continued cheering.) 

Twelfth Speaker. — Mr. Chairman, I cannot help think- 
ing that some of the last speakers have wandered a little 
from the true subject before us. (Hear! hear !). The question 
was "Are the mental Capacities of the Sexes equal ? " and 
the speakers are now hotly discussing whether the sexes 
are morally equal, with which point I submit we have 
nothing to do. (Hear! hear!) To bring back the discussion 
therefore, to its proper track, I beg to repeat that which 
has been yet unanswered, namely, That as the male sex 
has produced the more remarkable evidences of mental 
power, the palm of mental superiority is evidently theirs. 
(Hear ! hear !) Much has been said during this debate, but 
no one has disproved this assertion, or denied the deduction 
from it: till cause is shown therefore why the verdict should 



DEBATES. 431 

not be in favor of the male sex, I submit that we have the 
right to demand it. (Loud Cheers.) 

Thirteenth Speaker. — Sir, the last speaker has, in a taunt- 
ing 1 manner, challenged us to deny his assertion and to dis- 
prove his argument, I will do both ; at least attempt to do 
so : and I trust I shall succeed in convincing my bold friend 
that he has not quite so good a cause as he thinks. 
(Cheers.) 

I will not admit that the female sex is outdone by the male. 
True, the one sex has produced a Shakespere, a Milton, and 
a Byron ; but the other has a Sappho, a Barbauld, and a 
Hemans. I will not, however, pursue the intellectual com- 
parison, for it would be an endless one. (Cheers). But 
suppose I were to grant what the last speaker claimed, 
namely, that the female sex has achieved less than the 
male, what then ? I can show that woman's education has 
been neglected : if, then, woman has not possessed the 
advantages conferred upon the other sex, how can you say 
that she is not naturally man's equal ? Till this is answered, 
nothing has been proved. (Hear, hear, and cheers). 

Fourteenth Speaker. Sir, I think that the answer may very 
easily be given. Great stress has been laid upon the fact 
that education has not been extended to woman, and there- 
fore, it is said, she is not equal to man. The fact then of 
her inferiority is admitted ; and now let us look at the ex- 
cuse. I think it a very shallow one, sir. Was Shakespere 
educated ? Was Burns educated ? Was James Watt edu- 
cated ? No ! They achieved their greatness in spite of the 
disadvantages of their position ; and this, sir, genius will 
always do. Nothing can keep it down ; it is superior to all 
human obstacles, and will mount. (Hear, hear). It is for 
want of genius, therefore, not for want of education, that 
woman has remained behind in the mental race. (Loud 
cheers). 

Fifteenth Speaker. Mr. Chairman, in spite of the learned 
and eloquent speeches of the ladies' champions, I am still 
inclined to vote with the opener. I think my conclusion 
rests on good authority. We find from Scripture history, 
that man was created first, and that woman was formed 
from a part of man — from a rib, in fact. (Laughter). 
Now, I would humbly submit, that as man was first formed, 



432 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

he was intended to be superior to woman ; and that woman 
being made from a part of man only, cannot be looked 
upon as his equal. We find, too, in Scripture, that woman 
is constantly told to obey man, and I contend that this 
would not be the case,, were she not inferior. (Cheers). 

Besides, sir, as it has been ably argued, her duties do 
not require such great intellect as man's. Now, nature 
never gives unnecessary strength ; and as woman is not 
called upon to use great mental power, we may be sure she 
does not possess it. (Loud cheers). 

Sixteenth Speaker. Sir, it seems to me that the remarks 
of the last speaker may be easily shown to be most incon- 
clusive and inconsistent. In the first place : he says, that 
as Adam was created before Eve. Adam was intended to 
be superior. I think, sir, that this argument is singularly 
unhappy. Why, we read that the birds, beasts, and fishes, 
were created before Adam ; and, if my friend's logic were 
sound, Adam must have been inferior to the said birds, 
beasts, and fishes, in consequence : an argument, as I take 
it, not quite supported by fact. (Laughter and cheers). Sir, 
so far as we can judge, the most important creatures seem 
to have been formed last, and therefore, Eve must, accord- 
ing to that, be not only inferior, but superior to Adam. 
(Hear, hear, and laughter). Then as to the argument 
about the rib. Why, what was Adam formed out of? 
The dust of the earth. Now, it seems to me that a living 
rib is a much more dignified thing to be made out of than 
the lifeless dust of the ground : and if so, my friend's 
argument turns against himself rather than against the 
ladies. (Cheers). 

I heard the gentleman say, too ; and I confess I heard it 
with some impatience, that woman's sphere does not require 
so much intellect as man's. Where he got such an argu- 
ment, I cannot imagine ; and I think it by no means cre- 
ditable either to his taste or to his discernment. Who has 
to rear the infant mind ? to tend and instruct the growing 
child ? to teach it truth, and goodness, and piety ? Not 
impetuous, impatient man, but enduring, gentle, and con- 
siderate woman. What more important or more difficult 
task could mortal undertake ? It requires the noblest 
intellect to teach a child, and that intellect being required 



DEBATES. 433 

in woman, I feel sure that she posseses it. (Hear, hear). 
Although, then, I own, that there are great and inborn 
differences between the intellectual capacities of the sexes, 
I cannot for an instant imagine that the one is, in the ag- 
gregate, at all inferior to the other. (Loud cheers). [A 
pause ensues.'] 

The Chairman rises and says : If no other gentleman is 
inclined to speak, I will put the question. 

Sixteenth Speaker. Perhaps our worthy Chairman would 
like to offer a few observations. 

[The Chairman then temporarily vacates the chair.] 

Chairman, Gentlemen, I should. I have reflected calmly 
and dispassionately upon the question before us, whilst I 
have been listening to the speeches made by my friends 
around me ; and although I own that I was at first inclined 
to vote in the affirmative of this question, I am not 
ashamed to say that my views have undergone a material 
alteration during the debate, and that I have now made up 
my mind to defend and vote for the ladies. (Loud cheers). 

In the first place, I think we are necessarily unfair 
judges: we are interested in the verdict, and therefore, 
ought not to sit upon the judgment seat. It gratifies our 
pride to think that we are superior to the other sex ; and 
reflection upon this point has convinced me, that upon the 
ground of good taste and modesty alone, we ought at once 
to give up the point, and admit woman's claims to be at 
least equal to our own. (Hear, hear). 

Reason also moves me to adopt the same conclusion. I 
concede at once, that there are great differences between 
the capacities of the sexes ; but not greater than between 
various races of our own sex. The African savage is in- 
ferior to the European philosopher. Why ? Because he 
has not been educated. So with woman. When you can 
shew me that woman has received the same advantages as 
man, and has not then equalled him, why then I will vote 
against her; but not till then. (Loud cheers). 

In conclusion, I would say, that as the Creator formed 

woman to be a help meet for man, I cannot believe that she 

was made inferior. She was given to him as a companion 

and a friend, not as a slave and servant ; and I think that 

u 



434 



THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 



we are displaying great arrogance and presumption, a* well 
as a contemptuous depreciation of our great Creator's best 
gifts, if we declare and decide that she who adorns and 
beautifies and delights our existence is inferior to ourselves 
in that intelligence which became a part of man's soul 
when God breathed into him the breath of life ! (Loud 
and continued cheering). 

[The Chairman havivg resumed his seat, calls upon the 
Opener to reply~\, 

The Opener (in reply). Mr. Chairman, — You have called 
on me to reply. Now I beg at once, and frankly, to say, 
that I, like you, have undergone conviction during this de- 
bate, and that I mean to vote against the proposition which 
a short time ago I recommended. (Loud cries of hear, 
hear, and cheers). 

I was misled by appearances. I looked into history ; 
but I did not examine it correctly. I looked at the surface 
only. I saw great deeds, and I saw that men had per- 
formed them ; but I did not estimate what had been done 
silently. 1 fcrgot to ask myself how much of the good 
these men wrought, was owing to the wisdom and good- 
ness taught to them in their infancy by their mothers. So 
with philosophy, so with science. The glitter caught me, 
and I fear I lost the substance. (Cheers). 

I am not sorry, however, that I introduced the question. 
It has changed those who were wrong, it has confirmed 
those who were right, and it has caused all to think. Let 
me hope that all who spoke on my side of the question 
are, like their leader, converted ; and let me in conclusion 
say, that I trust we shall take to our hearts the truth we 
adopt; and whilst we vote here, that the mental capacity 
of the female sex is fully equal to our own, shew by our 
conduct towards that sex, that we feel their high value 
and dignity, and treat them in every respect as our full 
equals and as our best friends. (Enthusiastic cheering). 

The Chairman. Those who think that the Mental Ca- 
pacities of the Sexes are equal, will please to signify the 
same in the usual manner. (Loud cries of " All" ! *■' All " !) 
I am happy to see, gentlemen, that we are all of one way 
of thinking ; — there is no need for me to put the other side 



DEBATES. 435 

of the question. I do declare it then decided by this 
meeting, that the Mental Capacities of the Sexes are 
equal. 

[This Debate has been selected from a work of great merit, 
entitled " The Debater" by Mr. F. Rowton ; in it will be found, 
in addition to many other debates, an extensive collection of 
subjects suitable for class discussion] . 



PARLIAMENTARY DEBATE, 

On a Resolution for the Admission of Ladies to the Gallery of 
the House of Commons, during the Debates. 

The Speaker. 

The Opener. Mr. Speaker,— I am sure no arguments 
can be necessary to recommend this Resolution to the adop- 
tion of the House. It speaks for itself. It addresses you 
as men ; it addresses you as gentlemen, and cannot therefore 
a4dress you in vain. — (Hear, hear, hear !) 

The adoption of this Resolution, — whilst, on the one hand 
it would pay a deserved compliment to the Ladies, would, 
on the other, confer a most important benefit upon the 
House — (hear, hear). For, to what, I ask, have those 
scenes of uproar, which have so often degraded and dis- 
graced this House (hear, hear,) been owing, but to the ab- 
sence of that sex, whose presence restrains, as much as it 
inspires ; of that sex from whose presence all tumult fees — 
but that of the heart — (general cheering). 

For our own sakes, therefore, even more than for the 
Ladies', (hear,) I beg to move, that it is the opinion of this 
House, " that its dignity would be consulted, and public 
business advantaged, by the admission of Ladies into the 
Gallery during the progress of the debates." — (Cheers.) 

Second Speaker. Sir. — I consider myself singularly 
honored in being allowed to second such a motion as that 
of my honorable friend. From its success, which, as it 
appeals alike to your gallantry and to your interests, can- 
not be doubtful, — I anticipate a train of the happiest con- 
sequences, — to the world philanthropically , (hear) — to the 
country politically (hear, hear,) — to the members of this 
House personally. (General cheers from Ministerial side.) 



436 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

I dare not trust myself to enlarge upon any one of these 
points, because, if I once made a beginning, I should never 
make an end ; — and as this would be fatal to the success of 
the motion itself, simply upon that consideration, I beg to 
conclude with seconding the resolution of my honorable 
friend. (Cheers.) 

Third Speaker. Sir. — Before this question is put to the 
House, I shall be pardoned the expression of my surprise at 
its novel and strange nature — (hear). The honorable 
gentlemen have not given one reason between them, to 
show that it is worthy your adoption. I do not blame them 
for this ; I well know, that it was impossible — (cheers and 
laughter from the opposition). I do not wish to take a 
position at all adverse to the ladies ; I think them all very 
well in their places ; but I confess, I am astonished, that 
my friends are so little aware of the power of one Goddess 
of Discord, that they are here introducing fifty. (Cheers.) 
I shall give my decided opposition to the motion. (Cheers.) 

Fourth Speaker. Mr. Speaker. — I really am at a loss to 
conceive, — when there are already so many old women in 
the House, — what objection there can possibly be to the 
introduction of a few young ones. (General laughter, with 
two rounds of cheers.) 

Consider, I beseech you, the influence they would exert, 
— first, upon the language of our orators, — the grace they 
would inspire ! how effectually they would banish all rude- 
ness and offensive personality ! What expressions would be 
suffered to pass a gentleman's lips unfit to enter a lady's 
ear ? (Hear.) And if the effect should be the extinction of 
a set of noisy orators, whose whole resources of language 
would be thus cut off, — I am sure, neither this House nor 
the country would be a loser by it. (Hear, hear.) 

Then, as to the deportment of Members. — We should not 
then see — you, Sir, with that eye which must be peculiarly 
disgusted with the unbecoming, (the Speaker bows) — would 
not then see Members in all the varieties of posture of 
which we can conceive, or rather cannot conceive ; — some 
reclining at full length, — others with heels more elevated 
than their heads, — literally as well as figuratively; nor 
would our ears be assaulted by all the sounds incident and 
proper to a menagerie ; nor by the still more inarticulate 



DEBATES. 437 

sounds, which tell of Members sleeping over a nation's in- 
terests. The ladies enter ! (Hear, hear.) Observe how 
hushed every ungentler sound. (Hear, hear.) How decent 
the postures ! (Hear, hear.) How watchful the attention ! 
(Hear, hear.) How manly the air ! (General cheering.) 
Then again, anticipate their influence upon our deliberations! 
What encouragement to virtuous and pacific policy ! What 
man would venture to invade the constitution of a country, 
under the very eyes of those who are its brightest ornaments 
and its dearest pledges ? (Cries of hear.) What man would 
lightly counsel war in sight of that sex, which war finds 
the most helpless and leaves the most suffering ? (Cheers.) 
I " pause for a reply !" (Cheers.) 

Fifth Speaker. The honourable gentleman shall not 
pause long. Nothing, it will be admitted on all hands, 
would conduce more to the dignity of our proceedings than 
that they should sometimes be conducted with a little more 
attention to order. (Hear, hear). The honourable mem- 
ber has alluded to the disorderly conduct of the oppo- 
sition. I will tell the honourable Member, — and I beg 
the honourable Member will mark what I say particularly, 
— that if there is one man more than another in this 
House, who more frequently tramples under foot all the 
rules of order, violates all decency, and whose whole pub- 
lic conduct is as disgraceful to himself, as it is detrimental 
to the country, the honourable gentleman is that man. 
(Loud cries of " Order!" Several Members rise at once. 
" Mr. Speaker ! " " Chair! Chair ! " are heard from 
twenty voices on both sides the House. The Speaker cries 
"Order!") 

Sixth Speaker. I rise to order ; and beg to put it to the 
Chair whether such remarks should be allowed to proceed, 
(Hear, hear). 

Seventh Speaker. I also rise to order. Why is my 
honourable friend to be thus interrupted ? If the honour- 
able Member opposite feels aggrieved, let him retract his 
own expression ; but do not let him take refuge from the 
retort himself has provoked, in a paltry appeal to the 
Speaker. (Order ! order ! — chair ! chair ! and much con- 
fusion. The Speaker is observed to be rising, and the 
stillness is awful). 

The Speaker. Both the honourable gentlemen, I am 
v 3 



438 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

sure, will at once see the necessity of retracting their ex- 
pressions, — which, I am bound to say, are totally incon- 
sistent with the rules of this house. (Hear, hear). The 
expressions complained of are — that the honourable Mem- 
ber's whole conduct has disgraced him, and that he has 
made a paltry appeal to the Chair. (Hear, hear, hear). 

Eighth, Speaker. Sir, — I bow with pleasure to your deci- 
sion. I spoke only of the public conduct of the honourable 
Member ; and I by no means intended the epithet " dis- 
graceful " to convey an offensive sense. (Hear, hear). 

Ninth Speaker. I also applied the word " paltry " with- 
out meaning any offence. (Hear, hear). 

Tenth Speaker. After the very candid explanations of 
the honourable gentlemen opposite, I can have no hesitation 
in saying that my remarks upon the conduct of the oppo- 
sition member, were hypothetical, and intended to give no 
offence ivhatever. (Hear, hear, and general cheering). 

Eleventh Speaker. I would venture to suggest, Sir, now 
that the tempest is stilled — (hear, hear,) — and all these 
satisfactory explanations have been made, that for aught 
that has been proved by the honourable mover or his 
friends on that side of the House, — even when the gallery 
is provided, — there will not be a single lady who will enter it. 
(Hear, hear). If the honourable gentleman will prove that, 
and will so far depart from his usual economy, as to provide 
eye-glasses, at the public expense, for the use of short- 
sighted Members, I will venture to predict that his motion 
will be carried with acclamation. (Hear, hear). But if, 
on the contrary, as there is too much reason to expect, no 
ladies, or only ladies about the age of seventy — (general 
and vehement cries of order, chair !) 

The Speaker. The gentleman will understand me, if I 
do not repeat a phrase which is, in the eyes of this House, 
peculiarly offensive. (Hear, hear). A lady's age is, — 
like the privileges of this house, — not to be questioned. 
Most dangerous consequences have resulted from the 
practice, which it is impossible too strongly to condemn. 
Ladies have been known to be " only eighteen " for three 
years together. — (General burst of laughter and cheers). 
The phrase is " ladies of a certain age." (Another burst 
of laughter, and cheers, during which the Speaker and 
Member sit down). 



DEBATES. 439 

Twelfth Speaker. I beg to inquire, what provision the 
framer of this resolution has made, in the event of its 
passing, for maintaining the requisite silence in the Ladies' 
gallery ? My only fear is on this ground. Should the 
honourable Member succeed in removing it, he may rely on 
my support. (Hear, hear). 

Thirteenth Speaker. Sir. — One honourable gentleman 
who has addressed you, enlarged, with his accustomed 
eloquence, upon the refining influence which the ladies 
would exert upon the manners of the House. Let me 
remind the honourable member, that if the three Graces 
were women, so were the three Furies. (Hear, and 
cheers from the opposition). 

Fourteenth Speaker. Sir. — An objection has occurred to 
me, which I must be permitted just to mention. Should 
several of us happen to rise together to address the House, 
with ladies in that gallery, what chance would any of us 
have of catching the Speaker's eye ? 

The Speaker. Feeling that the honourable gentleman's 
remarks apply to myself personally, I trust I shall not be 
deemed to overstep the duties of my office by venturing 
a remark. (Hear). The success of the motion will un- 
doubtedly place myself, personally, in a peculiar position ; 
— (hear!) — but I do assure the house of my firm resolve — 
that my regards shall never be attracted towards any lady 
who may sit in that gallery. (Hear, hear). It is the duty 
of Members on all occasions to support the Chair ; and 
gentlemen will not fail to follow my example. (Hear, 
hear, hear), Perhaps the house would feel the advantage 
of a screen. (Loud cheers). 

Fifteenth Speaker. Sir, — I feel more than I can express. 
My profession is one more conversant with deeds than with 
words ; but, were it the reverse, — were I as ready with my 
tongue as with my sword, — all the powers of language 
would fail to convey the feelings of apprehension with 
which I contemplate the passing of this resolution. 

Many of us, even now, find no small difficulty in ex- 
pressing our sentiments ; but, Sir, to stand up in front of a 
battery of bonnets, all pointed at you, and calmly and 
coherently deliver an oration ! —it is too fearful even to 
contemplate. 

Let me not be told, Sir, that I am a coward ; — my 



440 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

courage has been too often tested in the field to need to be 
asserted here. If that gallery were filled with a menacing 
soldiery, — with their pieces levelled at my breast, — I could 
speak with an unthrobbing pulse and an unfaltering tongue ; 
— but with ladies, — Sir, I could not speak at all! "The 
war-horse, that will rush upon a row of cannon, will fly at 
the flapping of a banner ! " (Cheers.) It is vain to reason 
with us. It is a superstition, Mr. Speaker, and we cannot 
help it. (Great cheering from the opposition.) 

Sixteenth Speaker. Whilst I sympathise with the feelings 
of my honourable friend the gallant Colonel, I beg his 
pardon — the gallant Colonel who has just addressed you, 
— I am still more alive to a danger of an opposite descrip- 
tion. He seeks to avoid Scylla ; I am equally anxious to 
shun Charybdis. He is apprehensive that the admission of 
the ladies would close some lips which ought to be open ; 
/ fear it would open many which ought ever to be shut ; — 
that every coxcomb then would find a tongue, for whom 
the House could not possibly find an ear — (hear, hear) ; — 
that a plain, straight- forward, business-like style of speak- 
ing would be despised, and a florid poetical one affected; — 
grave subjects treated as trifling, and trifling as grave — 
(hear, hear); — all considerations of patriotism, justice, 
economy, merged in those of romantic folly and an all- 
sacrificing gallantry ; — the lute and harp taking precedence 
of the trumpet and drum — (hear, hear) — and this House, 
once the seat of grand debate, and the oracle of a nation's 
wisdom, become the arena of an exhibition — compared 
with which, the tournament, the bull-fight, and even the 
cod>fight, would be rational and human. (Vehement 
cheering from the opposition.) 

Far be it from me, Sir, to represent the ladies as the 
cause, or anything more than the occasion of all this — (a 
burst of hear, hears ! from the ministerial side.) The fault 
would attach not to the influence, but to the influenced. 
If the moon's pure and chaste beam find out every weak 
part in a human head, the consequent lunacy is to be 
charged not upon the moon, but upon the head. (General 
cheers.) 

Nevertheless, as it is much more easy to prevent than to 
cure, I beg to give notice, that if this resolution pass — to 
prevent these evil consequences, — I shall bring in a bill, by 



DEBATES. 441 

which none but married gentlemen, or bachelors above 
seventy years of age, shall be eligible to a seat in this 
House, (Great cheering from the opposition.) 

Seventeenth Speaker. I shall oppose this motion, — not 
from individual fear, as some gentlemen have done, — nor, 
I pledge myself, from any party- wish to prevent the minis- 
try from reaping deserved popularity, by passing a well- 
devised measure, if this were one ; but, from- a deliberate 
conviction that the discipline of this House — aye, and the 
very constitution of this House — are at stake. Listen to 
the warning voice of the past ; — call to mind the day when 
a peeress of the realm — a duchess of the state — rushed 
into that gallery, and defied your Serjeant-at-Arms, when, 
in obedience to your Speaker's order, he endeavoured to 
promote her Grace's speedy exit. (Loud cheers from the op- 
position.) I prophesy, Mr. Speaker, that, if this motion be 
carried, — at the next division of this House strangers will 
not withdraw ; and what a subversion of all the rules of 
this House will most unquestionably follow. — But would 
the evil stop here ? I am much deceived if the ladies 
would not eventually think fit to change their positions, — 
themselves taking those places which, I will be bold to say, 
we have so long adorned, and banishing us to that gallery, 
into which, in a fatal hour, we were persuaded to admit 
them. (Cheers from the opposition.) 

Eighteenth Speaker. Mr. Speaker, — However men of 
sense and feeling may differ as to the propriety and ex- 
pediency of the present resolution, — they must be all 
agreed as to the ^propriety and ^expediency of making 
this discussion a medium of depreciating and vilifying a 
sex, which cannot be too highly appreciated and honoured ; 
— a sex to which we are under such deep obligations, — to 
which we owe not only existence, but all that adorns and 
endears existence ; — a sex with which our own must stand 
or fall. (General cheering.) 

I have heard of silly boys, who seemed to think the first 
and best proof of incipient manhood was to sneer at 
woman ; but I certainly did not expect to find a folly, un- 
worthy of a schoolboy, sanctioned by the authority of a 
senator. (Cheers from ministerial side) . The honorable 
member who observed, that ladies were all very well in 
their places, in a sneering tone, which implied that he 



442 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

thought meanly of those places, — must surely have forgotten 
the period of his boyhood, — the days when, " after receiving 
a thousand insults, — after being elbowed off by one, pushed 
away by a second, and made game of by a third, he came 
home to his mother, and found that bis own fire-side was 
the happiest place on earth to him ; when his mother did 
what no one else would have condescended to do, — con- 
versed with him, — treated him like a rational being ;" and, 
by so doing, contributed to make him one (hear, hear.) The 
honorable Member surely forgot all this, — [forgot that 
mothers are women, when he spoke as if the sex were of an 
inferior order, and required to be kept in their places. The 
only doubt, — the only reasonable doubt, — is, whether this 
House is worthy of ladies, — not whether they are worthy 
of it ; whether their passage into that gallery would not 
be a descent, rather than an ascent; whether their duties 
are not of too elevated and sacred a character, and their 
time too valuable, to allow of their honoring us with their 
presence in this House. (Burst of cheers from the minis- 
terial side.) 

Nineteenth Speaker. Sir, — Whilst I cordially sympathize 
with my honorable friend's glowing testimony to the merits 
of woman (a testimony which does equal honour to his 
head and to his heart), I yet do not see that those merits 
supply any reason for passing the present resolution (hear, 
hear). 

I will yield to no man in admiration, respect, affection 
for the ladies ; and yet surely I may desire not to be 
diverted by their presence in a house of business, — a 
character which I hope this House will ever maintain (hear, 
hear). 

Twentieth Speaker. After the extraordinary speech of 
the honorable gentleman opposite, I feel called upon to 
offer some remarks to the House. Sir, I feel that my con- 
stituents will expect that I — will expect that I (" should 
sit down" — ugh! ugh!). Sir, — this interruption (ugh! 
ugh! ugh! ugh!). The conduct of honourable members 
(ugh, ugh, etc. etc.). I do not mean to say that anything 
I can say will have any effect upon the House (" Certainly 
not !" ugh ! ugh !) or that it will have anything to do with 
the matter in hand (Ugh ! etc., coughing and drawling of 
feet general, during which the honorable Member sits down). 



DEBATES. 443 

The Speaker. During the thirty-five years that I have 
presided over the deliberations of this House, — during the 
whole course of my Parliamentary experience, in office or out 
of office, — there has never been such an exhibition as that 
which we have just witnessed. Every Member has a right 
to be heard ; and I must say that nothing can be more 
calculated to degrade this assembly in the eyes of other 
countries than the occurrence of scenes like the present. 
My increasing age and infirmities (here the Speaker coughs 
asthmatically) will soon oblige me to retire from this trust; 
but during the short time I have yet to remain amongst 
you, it shall be my endeavour (and I am sure the good 
sense of the House will support me), to prevent their 
recurrence. (General cries of hear ! hear ! divide ! di- 
vide !). 

The Opener (who rises to reply amid general cheers). 
Before the House proceeds to a division, I beg to make a 
few observations in reply to the objections which have been 
brought against my resolution, and — under cover of my 
resolution — against the ladies themselves. 

Some of these were evidently feigned. The facetious 
gentleman, who was apprehensive your Speaker would have 
no eyes for you, — and the equally facetious gentleman who 
was apprehensive the ladies would have no ears for you, — 
having taken the full enjoyment of their jests, will, I am 
persuaded, give me the benefit of their votes (hear, hear). 

One honorable Member, — with equal sagacity and learn- 
ing, — has discovered that because the Furies were women, 
women are furies ! (Hear, hear, with laughter.) Unhappy 
man ! whose disordered fancy, or guilty conscience, has in- 
vested even beauty with deformity, and armed even gentle- 
ness with terrors ! — he need not fear furies from without ; — 
he carries them within. (Loud cheers.) 

Another, — with equal originality, — has complimented 
the ladies with being " Goddesses of Discord! " I will accept 
part of the compliment. I will take the divinity, and my 
friend may keep the discord. (Hear, hear, with laughter.) 

An honorable and gallant Colonel spoke under a highly 
nervous apprehension, that the presence of ladies would rob 
him of the power of speaking. Let me assure him that his 
apprehension is purely nervous. The ladies appear formi- 
dable only at a distance. A nearer acquaintance with them 



444 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

will dispel all his fears. They are specially indulgent to 
modest merit (Cheers.) 

Allow me to trespass a few moments longer upon your 
attention. 

You have been already reminded of the claims which 
that sex derives from the maternal relation. I beg to re- 
mind you of the less strong—yet very strong— claims, it 
derives from another relation, and of the still stronger from 
a third. Who can enumerate a brother's obligations to a 
sister ? (Vehement and prolonged cheering from the whole 
House ;) — her pure disinterested affection — her softening, 
refining influence, richly repaying what she receives in pro- 
tection, fashioning and qualifying the youth for a still dearer 
relation. (Hear, hear.) Mark a youth of coarse rugged 
feelings, temper, and manners, and in 99 cases out of 100, 
you will find he has no sister. (General cheers.) 

To the conjugal relation, (hear, hear,) I can speak only 
from observation and hearsay ; but so far as these, and the 
instincts of my own nature (hear, hear), enable me to judge, 
I do not hesitate to pronounce it the purest and most en- 
nobling source of happiness to man. (Great applause.) 

One word more, Mr. Speaker, and I have done. The 
members who are opposed to me upon this question, will 
remember that lists of the division will be printed,— that 
bright eyes will be upon them,— and that the least they 
can expect from the ladies, will be a sentence of perpetual 
banishment from tbeir society, of which society they will by 
this evening's vote have pronounced themselves unworthy. 
(Upon the concluding intimation, the whole opposition, with 
the exception of fur make a rush to the ministerial side, are 
received with open arms, and the resolution is carried amidst 
triumphant cheering, by a majority of 596.) 

[This clever little debate was written by the late lamented 
Mr. J. Barton, of Store Street, Bedford Square, for the 
Christmas Recitations of his Pupils^ 



J. Werttieimer and Co., Printers, Finsbury Circus. 



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